Reign of Terror
by ForFutureReference
Summary: It's been several years since Alma Coin gained control of Panem, and now she's looking to eliminate threats to her plans. Will Peeta be able to get through this with his friends and loved ones? And what about the fate of the nation? *Sequel to "Vox Libertas". Spielpolitik AU.*
1. Prologue

_If virtue be the spring of a popular government in times of peace, the spring of that government during a revolution is virtue combined with terror: virtue, without which terror is destructive; terror, without which virtue is impotent. Terror is only justice prompt, severe and inflexible; it is then an emanation of virtue; it is less a distinct principle than a natural consequence of the general principle of democracy, applied to the most pressing wants of the country._

Maximilien Robespierre, 1794 CE

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><p><strong>Prologue: A FUBAR Future<strong>

***Haymitch***

"Hey, I meant it when I told him he earned the break. All of those kids down there have earned a break."

I know it's silly, but I feel like snapping at somebody right now. In this case, it's these two striped not-dogs lounging in the foyer and staring at me with judgmental stares after I had stepped off from the elevator. Or maybe they're probably just staring in anticipation of mooching food off me.

In any case, I trudge past them and into the command room where I announce myself with a grumble: "The boy was trying to join our little meeting and I had to shoo him away." When I saw Peeta's pleading and earnest stare, it was tempting to give in and allow him to tag along. He's smart enough to know that the topic of the coming conversation is going to involve him. While he's also smart enough get the hint to back off, hopefully he'll take my sincere advice to relax for once. "Did I miss anything?"

Judging by how everybody else — besides the Central and Rebellion officials, joining us are all of the remaining victors above the age of forty as well as Dr. Aurelius and Hazelle Hawthrone, who's busy nursing Peeta's niece — is just getting seated, I doubt it. But hey, it never hurts to be sure.

Before I take my seat, the series of colors flashing outside causes me to stop by the window and take a look down to the plaza. At this moment Annie and Finnick — at this moment, you wouldn't think that all those horrible things had happened to the victor just a couple months ago — are dancing to an upbeat tune performed by those Central kids who helped us liberate Twelve. It looks like I'm not the only person taking note of the latter's musical skills considering how intently Plutarch is staring at the screen.

"That band seems to have quite the talent," he muses before turning to Porus. "Say, after this war is over, I'm possibly thinking of a new show. Perha—"

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your cameras and greasy mitts to yourself and away from those boys," the Commandant growls, which immediately causes the Gamemaker to back off while Beetee shares a smirk with his other Central colleagues.

Despite the fact that she's a frosty bitch with no qualms about ending lives in the most brutal of manners, I'll admit that if there's one thing I can appreciate about Porus it's that she actually seems to care about the people under her protection. Too bad she has no intention of extending that protection beyond the confines of this isolated community.

"So…" I say while plopping down on the seat and pouring a glass of mead for myself, "now that we all have filled ourselves with good food and congratulated the happy couple, I guess we all might as well get right to the point."

Except we don't, at least not initially. Instead, we go over the usual logistics and progress of the Rebellion, even though things have pretty much become cinched ever since the Nut fell and we gained control of Twelve. All that's left is the Capitol itself, and the plans for that already in the finalization stage with soldiers throughout the nation training for that final push. Eventually, however, talk about that finally leads to subject at hand:

Alma Coin.

It's no secret to anybody that she's the one poised to become President of Panem once we depose Snow. And to many in the districts, this woman who lives a life of austerity and has led the Rebellion against the Capitol's tyranny is a natural choice to replace the nation's current ruler. Well, it's a natural choice except to those who have become familiar with Thirteen's different flavor of tyranny, its honestly creepy rhetoric about population sustainability, and its leader's… charming disposition. Who knows what's going to happen once all of the Panem falls under her control.

Thing is, identifying the issues with Coin is the easy part. Now comes the part about what we're going to do. Not to mention another subject that's just as pleasant:

How will Peeta Mellark, current representative of the Rebellion, fit into all of this?

It's when those two subjects finally collide during the debate — it's brought up that, out of all of us, Peeta's the only one who'd actually be able to get close enough to kill Coin due to the latter not viewing him as a personal threat; a political threat on the other hand… — that I finally snap, "And who here thinks that the boy will actually go through with an assassination if given the chance?" And for once after almost half an hour of discussions, the whole room goes silent and still, which just causes me to lean back with a sneer. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

I'm not even going to fault Peeta on that, even with the possible repercussions. It's one of his many decent qualities, and I'll be damned — well, damned more than usual — before being party to something that changes him.

"So we just allow Coin to come to power?" asks Paylor. "I don't like the idea of putting Peeta in such a situation anymore than you, Haymitch, but if this conversation is any indication, that's the only real option we have with the minimal chance of it leading to another civil war."

"Well, the way things look, another civil war could be on the horizon anyways," I counter. "We might as well spend this time planning on how we'll remove Coin from power rather than going through all of these half-baked ideas to keep her from ascending in the first place."

Part of me soon regrets saying that. Because we not only do decide to focus on that… but the boy once again becomes the centerpiece of the discussion. In this case, it's the potential of him once again to be the face of this hypothetical Third Rebellion.

"Why are you all talking about Peeta as if he's just a machine to be directed around?" Hazelle snaps as she holds Beth close to her. "It's clear that he's not going to like being thrown back into the fray."

"But do you think he's going to refuse?"

Plutarch's question makes the idea of jabbing my knife into his pompous face very appealing. Except that I know he's right.

It's clear to me that this has become so much more than saving Katniss — granted, there's still that — to Peeta. He's honestly become invested in the principles of the Rebellion—no, scratch that… not the Rebellion; the Rebellion is just another power play. Rather the more I think about it, the more I'm sure that the boy has become invested in some ultimate ideal for the future of this nation… even if he doesn't know it yet.

Even if it kills him.

To think that I actually remember snippets of the boy before that fateful day over a year ago; yes, there have been times when I've left my house. I wouldn't exactly have called him carefree — sort of a given considering the household— but there was a certain youthful cheer he held, even for many his age and even through a good portion of time after that reaping. Also, I wasn't kidding when I once called him the "sane victor".

Now, however, there's a look in his eyes and certain way he carries himself that makes most of us older victors seem perfectly well-adjusted. Despite that, and I seriously don't know how he does it, he still somehow manages to keep things together at least in public. Those times when he does lose control however…

I'll admit that even I got caught up in all of Peeta's accomplishments throughout the course of this war and almost began to see him more as a symbol. Even during those moments when he went absolutely bonkers, I thought nothing more than basic concern over the sanity of a colleague. But that moment when the boy broke down in my arms reminded what he really is: a kid who has practically lost everything and is now forced to play the part of an adult in some event no decent person should shoulder even partially.

For some reason, I take a look at one of the screens focusing on the current festivities and notice how everybody down there is actually _happy_. It makes me wonder whether we — the elders who nudge these children in a certain direction with the hope of them working and fighting for some greater good, despite the danger they face; a hell of a lot more danger than what comes our way — are the ones who are actually the real enemy.

"Haymitch."

"Huh?" I manage to be shaken out of my thoughts to see that everybody in the room is staring at me with varying degrees of expectation.

Not to mention a slight amount of irritation that seems to be afflicting Plutarch's face as if he were trying to ask me something before; then again, maybe that's what he was doing. "Do you think Peeta's going to accept the idea of staying involved?"

Even if we aren't the enemy, it's definitely clear as to what we are: "We're real pieces of work, aren't we."

To their credit, everybody — barring Plutarch and Porus; I still can't get a good read on the latter, so I don't think she counts — in the room looks slightly ashamed at my declaration. Well, at least we can acknowledge how FUBAR this all is.

"Yeah… more likely than not, he'll stay involved," I note. "Hell, you'll probably have to keep him from helping out _too much_."

"But you all better make sure that you have his back the whole time," Hazelle adds with no small amount of venom.

Now that's out of the way…

"So what's the word on the districts?" Paylor asks. "I know that, while it was only a single event, Peeta's actions during the bombing resonated with the people in my district."

"Same goes for Bread Boy's attempt at donating his earnings," Chaff adds in. "Those two kids are heroes in Eleven even though they haven't even set foot there since the Tour."

"That's well and good, but the fact is that both Eight and Eleven are districts which would potentially benefit from Coin's policies. We can't rely on isolated incidents alone, so you're going to have to find some what of working from that and cultivating something that lasts," Plutarch tell both the commander and the victor. I'll admit that the Gamemaker raises a fair point and the two his addresses seem to agree as well.

"District Three may have been one of the first districts to rebel against the Snow," Mayor Charlton notes, "but if Coin's style of governance is how I imagine it to be, then I'm more than sure that the people will have no love for her either. So besides the fact that the people have expressed gratitude to Mellark for getting us to switch sides and eliminate the Peacekeeper presence, this district has grounds to oppose Coin." I notice that he doesn't mention Central, nor does Porus speak up about it. So I wonder if they're going to help, or if it's back to neutral seclusion unless they get prodded enough; probably the latter.

"Then there's the Career districts," says Lyme. Well someone had to state the obvious. "No matter how you cut it, chances are that they aren't going to be treated well after this is over; not even Four's early revolt is likely to spare it. Even in the small chance there aren't going to be retributive actions taken against the inhabitants, they're going to have no love for the new government. Already the soldiers from Thirteen are not that well-received in Two, even among many of our rebels."

"Not to mention how close they came to killing us," mutters Olympia. "On the less negative side, Peeta's speech at the Aedes Bellonae was well-received there. I know my son considers him an honorable boy, and the opinion is shared by many of those who used to be Peacekeepers. You wouldn't have thought that a year ago people hated him for supposedly being a 'deceitful little coward' during the Seventy-Fourth and, to add to that, an 'instigator that can't survive on his own' during the Quell and first part of the war. No offense Haymitch; I'm just paraphrasing."

Honestly, that just makes me chuckle. "None taken. The boy actually jokes about that fact. If anything, he thinks that all this praise he's getting is undeserved." Some of us are still utterly incredulous at Peeta's level of self-depreciation, to which I simply shrug. I've given up on attempts to figure him out a long time ago.

"Anyways, we'll probably have to make sure that the inhabitants of the Career districts don't do anything rash lest an excuse is given for Coin to issue retributive action." Lyme pauses for a moment and lets off a sigh. "Which is probably easier said than done."

"Speaking of which…" Cinnabar decides to turn to Porus with no small amount of hesitation. "Commander, do you mind if Olympia and I… well… 'accidentally' leave our children here when we go back to Two."

The Commandant doesn't seem to be thrilled with that suggestion. "Yes I do mind. Central is not some daycare for people to drop their kids off when times are tough outside." However, after a few minutes, she sighs, "What are the youths' skill sets? And should I be concerned about the Peacekeeper boy?"

In contrast to Porus' exasperated sigh, the one the redheaded victor releases is of relief. "Mercury's a good mechanic. The vehicles here may be of unfamiliar make, but she learns quickly."

"And Marcus has good maintenance skills as well, though in the realm of building appliances and infrastructure," Olympia adds. "While of course he's not happy about all the Peacekeepers who were killed by Central, he understands the nature of war. As long as people here don't rub it in his face, and as long as your forces don't deliberately target civilians, he shouldn't be a problem. Also, he and Mercury will be able to look after the younger ones."

Several more minutes pass in silence before Porus finally relents. Of course, she doesn't forget to add on the usual sets of warnings should they cause any issues.

Getting back on track, I note, "I think Ten and Five are a bit of a crapshoot. Though I know someone from Ten; he's a decent guy, has connections, and is planning on going back to his district after the war's over. So we may be able to work something out from there. And I think Five is able to be swayed, though some persuasion will be needed." That district may be rebelling, but its overall atmosphere is about as enthusiastic as One's. Even if we can't get them to participate, they'll probably be receptive to the idea of neutrality.

Despite mentioning the potential of all these districts to be going up against Coin, nobody seems to want to mention the three Coin-loving elephants in the room. Well… nobody except for the Commandant: "What about Districts Six, Seven, and Nine?"

And as expected, everybody becomes uncomfortable at that line of questioning. Because the fact of the matter is that those three districts are obviously in line with Thirteen itself. Already they seem to be receptive to the general pro-worker political philosophy Coin espouses, and it probably doesn't hurt that those were the first three districts that were fully secured by the Rebellion. And so far, we don't have anybody that can help sway the populace as those districts never cared for their victors even when they were still around; hell, Johanna has no intention of going back to Seven as the damn rebels killed their remaining victors due to the neutrality of the latter.

Worst of all, it's not like we can dismiss the three districts as irrelevant in this grand scheme we're going over. Not only does that region provide near continuous land between Thirteen and the Capitol — the only thing that prevents it from being fully continuous is a large patch of Wilderness; considering that rail lines go through there anyways, it's not exactly an obstacle, and I'm sure Command's already figuring out ways to secure it — but there's the fact that they can ensure that Coin's side stays self sufficient even if all the other districts turn against her. Nine supplies grain that's already relied on for basic consumption throughout the nation, and the land in Seven can easily be converted to food production. In Six's case, there's the lovely factual triple-whammy that this district of note is in charge of heavy industry and steel production, has direct access to natural, and is the most populous among all the other districts. Oh, then we get add to those facts that, once Six was secure, Thirteen immediately began commissioning the place to create weapons, munitions, and military vehicles; I would not be surprised that the logical conclusion to this, after the war, will be the immediate emasculation of Two via the shutdown of all its weapons' factories.

Yeah… to say that this isn't going to be easy is a slight understatement.

"Well, there's nothing like a challenge, eh?" quips Chaff while slapping me across the shoulder.

"Hooray…" I mutter back before asking about the accompanying one-ton gorilla in the room, "And then what about Thirteen itself?"

This time, Boggs doesn't hesitate in explaining, "The plan is that once the Capitol is taken, Coin is going to shift the majority of the population, including all of the civilians, west. District Thirteen will still remain, but it will be specialized as a secondary military outpost."

"'Secondary'?" asks Paylor.

"The primary base is planned to be on where the city of Palatine used to be, which will allow the Capitol to be fortified much more effectively than the current configuration. And the tertiary bases are going to be the restored Nut as well as Camp Mockingjay." _Wonderful…_ "So the best thing we can do is to cultivate sympathetic elements and hope a movement grows from there. Contrary to popular belief, Thirteen does have a sizable group that isn't too fond of their president's regime."

"Also," Plutarch chimes in, "we can probably get a movement rolling among the denizens of the Capitol."

"Only problem with that is the fact that the Capitolites are already going to be under suspicion," Paylor counters. "Do you seriously think they'll risk their neck for this? If what you've said is true, it was hard enough to get Capitol allies against Snow."

"We may not be able to get an actual uprising against her," the Gamemaker concedes, "but we'll probably be able to have outsiders to figure out possible flaws in her system."

Our little conspiratorial group continues to go back and forth as we scheme. That is, until Chaff decides to bring up the last sticking point:

"You know… most of us probably won't survive this. Hell, some of us may get picked off in the very beginning."

Funny thing is… that point causes the least discomfort amongst us.

"That's likely so," notes Boggs, "but then again, we're not doing this for us. We're doing it for _them_." To punctuate his statement, he tilts his head towards the window and then points at the display screens showing all those kids celebrating.

And this time, nobody argues.

~oOo~

I sometimes hate being right. Hell, I _usually_ hate being right because the stuff I tend to predict tends not to bode well for anybody except for those who really should be benefiting from… well… anything.

In this case, I hate being right about Peeta's unwillingness to kill Coin.

It's been about two-and-a-half years since that opportunity passed us by. Over two years, and I still remember everything in detail.

For just the briefest moment, as the boy confronted our esteemed president after the Capitol Games vote, I actually thought otherwise; I actually thought he was willing to go through with it. It was clear that he was taking in his surroundings and looking at potential weapons.

But then his eyes fell upon us. Then they fell upon Annie's belly. And if that was not enough to dissolve his resolve, the moment his eyes flitted to Katniss, I knew that there was no way he was going to risk committing the assassination, even if he no longer cared about his own welfare.

The weird thing about recollecting the whole event is that the worst part wasn't the missed opportunity itself, despite all the unpleasantness that was heralded with Coin remaining alive. Rather it was witnessing the powerful expression of self loathing overtaking the boy's features as he watched said opportunity walk right out the door to take control of the nation. For some time, I honestly feared the possibility of finding him swaying from the end of a rope; hell, if it weren't for Katniss and the Hawthornes, I think such a thing would have easily happened.

And so, instead of taking the easy way out, he's done what we wanted for him to do. He's planned. He's made connections and ensured that the media spotlight remains favorable as long as possible. He's spent a good amount of time going through combat training — it wasn't easy, but we have managed to keep Camp Mockingjay and its soldiers sympathetic — and learning tactics, with Katniss there by his side. All the while he's maintained the image of a friendly and harmless baker.

Yep, he's doing everything we have wanted… and more.

We really are monsters.

Sometimes I wonder about some alternate universe where all those two kids don't have to worry about any scheming but could rather put all their energy into healing each other and simply growing together. Not that they haven't done the latter at all; their marriage this past spring was as genuine as could be, and not even having it televised for propo reasons could put a damper on their mood. But what I dream about is those kids not being obligated to concern themselves with politics for reasons of survival.

Because that's what they have to do right now; the fate of the others is testament to that.

Paylor's dead; shot by some unknown sniper. Plutarch and Fulvia are dead; things finally caught up with them, and they were publicly executed for treason; to his credit, the Gamemaker didn't show any fear when the gun was put against his head. Boggs and his soldiers are fugitives, and I honestly don't know where they're at. The victors in Two are constantly looking over their shoulders, and Lyme has had several assassination attempts done already by "unknown assailants". Central has withdrawn into its shell and puttering along as usual, though considering the hatred Porus has for Coin right now — in terms of memories that will stick with me in the nastiest of manners, seeing how broken the Commandant's kid was after the fight ranks up there with witnessing the toll on Peeta and the deaths of all my other tributes — I think it's just a matter of when, not if, things finally fray.

And then there's what's happening to the nation itself…

FUBAR is an understatement.

Of course, I'm not just allowed to muse upon the fact. Instead, my television gets to turn itself on for mandatory viewing so as to remind me.

As the camera pans through the Capitol, I still find myself struck at how much has changed. I never thought I'd miss all that garishness and unnatural color but there's a part of me that actually does, especially considering what has replaced it after the reconstruction; now all of the buildings have been clad in gray, with the only interruption in that austerity being projections and banners exalting the power of the state and reminding the populace of their civic duty. Somehow, Coin has managed to transfer the blandness of Thirteen to that city; at some level, I'm actually a bit impressed.

In any case, all that fades when we settle on the crowded City Circle.

There are a lot of things about Coin that unnerve and anger me: from her attitude, to her policies, to all the people lost in her quest for power. However, nothing showcases her twisted nature as well as the sculpture in the middle to the circle: _Triumph of Rebellion_.

On first glance, especially from a distance, there's nothing that disturbing about it; overbearing, yes, but not necessarily disturbing. It simply looks like a massive bronze sculpture of a man — supposedly it's modeled after the president's father, Jason Coin, in the prime of his youth — on a three-tier pedestal. The figure itself is seventy-five meters tall and poised towards the former Games Headquarters as if striding in that direction. While the right hand gestures forward, the left fist is held aloft and clenching thirteen blades as the _Guiding Hand of Unity_: the former symbol of Thirteen and the current symbol of this nation.

Nothing too out-of-the-ordinary about the second tier either, though it gives a good idea of Coin's values. Portrayed there are the _Four Virtues_, with each Virtue aligned in an intermediate compass direction. _Loyalty_ is represented by a soldier and an official. _Productivity_ has a factory worker and a farmer. A teacher — more accurately, a government approved teacher — showcases _Purity_. And lastly, _Sustainability_ — now this one is slightly creepy — is of a mother surrounded by children. All Virtues are also larger-than life — about three times the size of a regular person — and look forward with purpose. In this case, that purpose would be to banish the figures of the bottom tier… and that's when things become horrifying.

Enter the _Four Treasons_, each of which is oriented under their respective opposing Virtue. _Treason of the State_: sort of speaks for itself, with not just enemy combatants but general rabble-rousers and those who shelter traitors of the other three categories. _Treason of the Community_: the former elite and "bourgeoisie", food hoarders, those who participate in frivolous activities, etc. _Treason of the Mind_: those who teach non-approved ideas, subversive artists, and the religious. _Treason of Humanity_: sexual and gender minorities, as well as those afflicted by genetic disorders. All Treasons are represented by figures in the process of cringing away from the Virtues above them; that, as well as what it represents, is bad enough if not for the fact that, unlike the centerpiece and Virtue statues, these figures are _real people_. Real people who have been found guilty by the state and executed before being pumped full of some compound that preserves their bodies and allows them to be posed in a way that makes them caricatures of themselves.

Behold… our fruit of the Rebellion.

Rejoice.

Anyways, before I can think too much on that, her Evil Bitchiness steps out onto the balcony of the Presidential Mansion — one of the few places that didn't get the gray makeover — to address the cheering crowd. After the introductory parade of districts where flags of Panem's constituents are marched past her and the anthem — another holdover from Thirteen is played, Coin begins her speech. And I tune out to focus on my liquor; after a while, all her speeches and most of the executions blend together.

It's only when I hear a screeching noise that I pay attention.

_No… they can't be…_

They are. Because as the camera pans back to the boulevard leading between the Mansion and Games Headquarters, I see the statue of the first victor of the Hunger Games festooned with ropes that are in the process of tearing it down. As it tips over with a crash, the second victor's statue follows right on its heels. Then the third… and so on.

While this occurs, Coin pontificates about a new era requiring us to move forward and leave the legacy of Games behind.

In other words: we victors have finally become irrelevant.

Then again, it was only a matter of time.

Let's just hope the boy's prepared.

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><p><strong>AN: Here it is, the sequel to _Vox Libertas_. If you somehow missed the hints, yes this is an AU where Peeta represented the Rebellion and Coin came to power.**

**Suffice to say, with the title, this story may get a bit dark. Also, unless stated otherwise, default POV is Peeta's.  
><strong>

**So without further ado, let's start this ride.  
><strong>


	2. The Bakery and the Boy

"This fucking sucks…"

That muttered outburst accompanies the sounds of a ringing bell and stomping feet as the bakery gains a new occupant. _Looks like someone's in rare mood… again._

Despite finding some amusement out of the dramatic entrance, I still have to put my foot down. However, someone else beats me to it:

"Vick said a bad word!" bleats Posy. "Mama's not going to be happy about that."

And as usual, Beth decides to parrot that statement. "Yeah; bad words is bad!" Okay, a close approximation and loose interpretation of that statement. And while Posy may be currently sweeping the floor, my niece is just sitting at the window and seeing how big of a wall she can make with stale loaves of bread.

"You heard the girls," I chortle before looking up from the register. "Mom may be back at home, but that doesn't mean that she wouldn't be unhappy with the way you're talking."

Vick stops fidgeting with his neckerchief and manages to look sufficiently ashamed before exhaling a huff of air as he grabs his apron and begins arranging pastries by my side. "Sorry. It's just… why do I have to do… _this_?" Just to emphasize his point, he pauses to gesture wildly at the Young Soldier uniform he's wearing.

"You know why."

Another exhale. "I know… I'm fourteen and all that," — On the upside, they did finally move the minimum conscription age up, though there's still a voluntary age of fifteen. On the downside, that's why the compulsory Young Soldier program was created: to fill the gap between ages fourteen and eighteen. Not to mention that they based it on Two's cadet program, all the way up to using the same dress code barring some changes in the emblem. Go figure that for all the rhetoric against that district, the government still finds the time to adopt things from it. — "but it still seems like a waste of time. You know this isn't me."

"You didn't seem to have a problem with being in the Scouts," I note.

"That's because they were flexible on what we could choose to do. This…" Vick counters while scrunching up his face, "this is _Rory stuff_."

Another chuckle escapes at that. "You know Rory doesn't like it any more than you."

"Maybe… but he sure as he-ck likes marching around in uniform. What kind of freak likes going through drills?"

"Your brother apparently."

It's actually a bit funny how Rory is an exercise in contrasts with Vick.

The most obvious place to start would be their builds. Considering how Vick is already close to my own height — something he doesn't hesitate in mentioning when the opportunity presents itself — it clear that he's sure to become as tall and lanky as Gale. Rory, on the other hand, doesn't look like he's going to get much taller than me and is a bit more on the stocky, yet still lean, side.

Then there're their respective foci. Maybe it was always his own interest or it could be due to his hero-worship of his eldest brother, but nobody can deny that Rory takes to the military atmosphere quite well; not to mention his proficiency with long-range firearms. Of course, he's also not an idiot and knows what the implication of serving under this government would be; if he really wants to enlist by the time he turns eighteen, I'll persuade Porus to allow him in. Vick, on the other hand, definitely has no interest in doing anything remotely military-related. Rather, to my pleasant surprise when I first found out, he's a natural in the kitchen and was actually able to make bread on his own within the first few months of us reopening the bakery.

On the flip side however are their demeanors. Like Gale, Vick has a bit of a short fuse; his little rant earlier is evidence of that. I sometimes fear that he's going to say something stupid and get himself — not to mention the rest of us — in trouble. Rory though… I don't think I've _ever_ seen him lose his cool. That's not to say that he doesn't become upset — key example of that being when Gale confessed to the family his role in creating those damn bombs — but there's never been a time where he's yelled or anything along those lines; it honestly gets a bit unnerving at points, and I'm not the only one who thinks that.

Watching them debate is sometimes quite a source of amusement.

"He's now your brother too," Vick shoots back, jolting me from my musings. "It's not like you have a choice in the matter."

Even though I know that the comment is made in jest, it still makes me stop what I'm doing and stare at him.

In turn Vick actually notices my reaction, but must be misreading it, because he immediately freezes as well with wide eyes before stammering, "Peet, I-I didn't mean it like tha—"

I don't let my little brother finish that statement because I immediately wrap my arms around to pull him into a hug. Yeah, it's a bit spontaneous but, for some reason, feels appropriate right now.

"Even if I did have a choice," I murmur, "I wouldn't trade you all for anything in Panem."

Yeah, it's true that the Hawthornes aren't related to me by blood, and I'll never forget my family-by-origin for all their highs and lows. But ever since Gale first made his offer and everyone immediately accepted me, I can't imagine them as anything else but family.

Of course, there's an image that Vick needs to uphold to preserve his budding sense of masculinity, so he tries to squirm out of my grasp while muttering, "Yeah yeah… I love you too. Save the hugs for Rory; you know those are his thing." However, my little brother is deluding himself if he thinks that I didn't notice his hesitation before the escape attempt or the split-second manner at which he returns the embrace.

Besides, it's not like he's allowed to leave before others decide to join in. "We love hugs too!"

Posy's squeal gives us just a split second of warning before she wraps her arms around our waists, and that's followed up with Beth clinging to both our legs. As there's no way for Vick to escape now, I shift my grip down to encompass my little sister and niece.

_Nope. Wouldn't trade them for anything… _

Finally we all let go, the girls scatter, and Vick stumbles back with the patented Seam scowl. So I just grin back and tousle his hair. Before I can make him anymore uncomfortable — _Don't think I didn't miss that smirk either, Vick… _— my little brother finally bats away my hand and asks, "So what now, Boss?"

"Well, you know you can't work with anything involving flour while wearing that," I explain while pointing at his uniform. "You may not like it, but you're still not going to get it dirty either. Also…"

"Yeah, I know," he mutters under his breath with a sigh, "don't complain about the program in public."

Because the last thing we need is for Coin to have another reason to breathe down our necks. Camp Mockingjay may remain sympathetic as a whole — even with a good chunk of soldiers originating from Thirteen — but that doesn't mean there aren't likely to be plain-clothes operatives wandering around here. It's hard enough to keep the bakery and our houses bugs-free, and I take a risk every time I go to the training field or meet with the commanders here. And now ever since her little Out-with-the-Old announcement a few weeks ago, it's clear that something's about to come up on the horizon.

Despite all of this, however, I push my worries away and keep my tone light to quip, "Glad you at listen at least a couple things I tell you." Another tousle is added before Vick can duck away. "How about you get some caramel going? I have a sheet of pastry dough ready, so we can make a peach tarte tatin to bring home and surprise everyone before Prim heads back. Sound good?"

And just like that, my little brother's mood immediately goes on an upswing, and it's as if his disposition was never in a foul state of being just minutes prior. "Sounds good!" he chirps and immediately gets to work measuring and mixing sugar and butter with the sort of enthusiasm that could only come from youth.

I really do imagine what it'd be like if we were actually able to hire him before… everything.

Before I can think too much, the bell chimes again, and a smile widens on my face as a boy rushes in. "Afternoon, Cohen. What can I get you today? Or are you looking for Rory?"

Cohen's is someone my brother considers to be a friend and not just because they're in the same Young Soldier squad. From what I've seen, the boy _is_ a good kid with an all-around friendly and kind demeanor — he helped me move stuff around when we were renovating the bakery for one— even though it's tempered a bit by his uptight and fidgety nature. I also know nothing about his background besides the fact that he's one of the few individuals to actually hail from Two — his ridiculous first name being testament to that; he just told us to call him by his last name for ease and because it's "more professional" anyways — which is a bit strange considering how Coin practically had that district neutered.

In any case, I can't think on that at the moment because there is something definitely strange about the boy right now. Actually, as he rapidly strides towards me, I'm starting to be a bit concerned. It could be how his fidgeting is way more than usual, or how pale he looks as his eyes shift from side to side. By the time he's right at the counter, my concern unfurls into a sickly feeling of unease. "Hey… are you okay?"

For a moment, Cohen just blinks as if wondering why he's here and gulps a couple times before finally stammering, "M-Mr. Mellark, sir," — Did I mention that he's uptight? — "you need to get out of here."

Aand that's when the tendrils in said feeling of unease crystallize and morph into dread. "Come again?"

"You need to run, sir. Hide. Anything! They-they're co—"

Whatever he's planning to say next is interrupted by the bakery shaken by a loud boom. Panels shudder and a few precariously placed items topple to the ground. However, I don't pay attention to that as I run over to the still-rattling windows to look outside for the potential source… and I see it in the form of a thick black plume of smoke rising up in the distance; it looks like it's coming from the barracks. To my horror, the structure, which houses at least a thousand soldiers — hopefully most of them are out around this time — collapses inward on itself as a cloud of incandescent gas blossoms upwards, followed by a rippling shockwave that reaches us with an impact containing even more force than before.

_Oh no…_

That simple thought is vocalized as well, though it's not me who does so:

"Oh no, nononono…" The whimpers cause me to turn around to see that any remaining color in Cohen's face has completely drained away as he backs away while blinking rapidly, shaking his head, and running his hands through his hair in what looks like an attempt to clear his thoughts. "Please… no…"

_It's finally happening, isn't it._ "Vick, take the girls to the cellar now." I don't know how, but my voice somehow manages to keep calm and even during that order; I sure as hell don't feel calm right now.

Okay, in all honesty, I'm pretty fucking terrified. Preparing for and expecting the inevitable is one thing; actually having it happen is a whole other beast.

Fortunately, my brother doesn't even bother questioning my order or what's going on. Instead, he immediately plucks Beth off the ground and rushes to the door that leads downstairs. In the meantime, I attempt to call home.

_Come on… why aren't you picking up, Katniss? This is— Wait, where's Posy?_

"And where do _you_ think you're going?"

My query causes Cohen to freeze mid-stride and pivot back to face me with wide eyes. "I-I can't be here right now."

Frustrated and worried with the lack of answer, and hoping that they at least have received the alarm I've just sent out, I toss my communicator down to stride towards the boy and grab him by the collar with a growl:

"What do you mean you can't be here? I need answers. How did you find out about this? Who did you hear it from?" At this point, I don't care if I sound harsh right now. All things considered, I'd say that would be the least of everyone's concerns, and if this boy had anything to do with what's happening…

For some reason, instead of answering my question directly, Cohen instead pushes a booklet into my free hand while muttering gibberish. "Hope this helps in some way… I'm sorry… should have told you sooner… didn't think they'd ac—"

"Hey, slow down." This time I do manage to soften my voice — somehow, the sight of the boy breaking down is enough to cause the initial wave of anger to ebb away — as I shift gears and my grip to clasp him on the shoulder. "That's why I want you here. So you can tell us now."

He simply shakes his head some more while continuing to ramble. "It's not safe… I'm not safe…"

"Don't worry." I'm probably telling myself that more than anyone else. "Just stay close. There are people who can protect you."

If anything though, the boy just seems to freak out further. "No that's not—"

"Peeta?" Posy's voice causes both of us to freeze on the spot, and fear creeps up my spine as I look down to see that she's standing right next to me. "What's happening?"

I'm about to tell Posy that she needs to run down to the cellar, when Cohen whimpers and utters a soft, "Too late…"

When I look back at him, the boy's not even bothering with the side-eye but now staring right out the window towards the opposite side of the street. There, at least ten armed youths are situated on motorcycles and a military utility vehicle… and they are in the process of raising their weapons.

_OH FU—_

However, before I'm able to say or do anything, I'm tackled and thrown to the ground as the sound of gunfire and breaking glass fills the air.


	3. Preparedness

Almost exactly three years ago, when I was freed from the Quarter Quell arena, President Coriolanus Snow had my parents, brothers, and sister-in-law executed just because he wanted to send a message and break me. Right after that, the bakery was leveled when Romulus Thread was instituting his reforms to the district.

Then I returned. I rebuilt the bakery. I gained a new loving family. And I managed to marry the girl who I've looked up to most of my life. Despite the past war, despite all of the pain that has afflicted those who I care for, and despite the current tyrant in charge of the nation, at least I have been able to rebuild my life to something even better than before.

Except now there are people trying their damndest to tear everything back down.

It's because of things like this that sometimes I'm indeed convinced there is actually some great all-powerful cosmic being out there… and it hates me.

While I muse on that little fact of life and death, numerous splinters of wood and shards of glass cascade over and all around my prone form as a sharp overlapping rhythm of gunfire assaults my eardrums. When I look to the side, I can see that while Cohen's arm is still thrown around me, most of his body is curled around Posy. Despite how my sister her eyes shut tightly, she actually seems to be handling this relatively alright… relatively; the boy on the other hand, is trembling and looks on the verge of breaking down completely, event though he had just saved our lives and is still trying to protect us.

_Why didn't I initiate the measures sooner? _

Granted, I have no time to focus on mentally kicking myself if we're to have even the slightest chance of getting out alive. So I press a button on my wristwatch to see if the system we installed during the rebuilding process actually works.

It does, and almost immediately, a security gate comprised of armored hexagonal panels arranged in a tight-fitting curtain rolls down to cover the entire front of the bakery, muffling the gunfire and causing the sound of impacts to be reduced to something reminiscent of rain hitting corrugated roofing. The same time, reinforced louvers close over the side windows while locks whir into place to block the back door from entry. Despite this reprieve, I know that it's only a temporary measure; the panels on the grate can only sustain so much of an continued assault — there's definitely no sign of them relenting — and the people who want us dead probably have other stuff at their disposal to breach the perimeter.

Still, I'm going to take any reprieve that comes my way.

"Go, Posy, go!" I bark out. This time, Posy doesn't ask any questions and extricates herself from Cohen's grasp to run towards the back where Vick has just emerged and is beckoning towards her. As he begins to usher our sister down the stairs, my brother looks at me with no small amount of tension-laden worry; however, due to other pressing concerns, I just wave him down with the assurance that I'll join them shortly.

So while Vick's making sure that the girls are safe and sound, I turn my attention onto the boy next to me. I guess that without either me or Posy to shield, he's seen a go-ahead to curl up into an even tighter trembling ball than I'd even think possible. "Hey, come on… I told you that we'll keep you safe. Let's get down to the shelter." Keeping my voice even and soft, despite my current fraying nerves, I slowly reach out for the purpose of comforting Cohen and gently coaxing him from his spot.

However, the moment my hand touches the boy's arm, he flinches away from my touch as if I'm scalding hot, and even when I try to talk to him it's almost like he's utterly unaware of my presence. The only acknowledgement he gives is a repeated and garbled plea for me to run. I'm about to give up on simply asking him to get up and go — it shouldn't be too challenging to just drag him to the shelter — when I see something that raises the severity of the situation to alarming levels: because, other than the minor abrasions on his body received from falling to the ground and falling glass shards, there are several blossoming splotches of crimson slowly expanding to replace the gray of his uniform.

_Dammit, where's Prim when you need her?_

I can't tell how life-threatening any of these wounds are at this moment — They look like they're in non-critical areas, and there's no sign of that he's dying just yet, so that has to be a good sign… right? — but it's obvious that there's a good chance Cohen's going to be in a lot of trouble if he doesn't get help very soon; not to mention that this little update on the situation sort of invalidates my plan to simply drag him to safety. Still, I try to keep my panic from showing as I attempt to crudely patch up the wounds the best I can with the first aid kit — a bit difficult when he refuses to unfurl from that ball — and, despite his continued unresponsiveness, do the best to comfort him to the best of my ability.

"Don't worry… you're going to be alright. Help… help's on the way." Again, I'm probably telling myself this more than anything. "Just… stick tight and we'll make it through this. I'm not going anywhere." Vick's probably not going to be happy about the last part, but I have no intention of leaving this boy's side, especially since he just saved my life; also, I still need to ask him questions about what he knows about this mess that's happening right now.

In any case, it's not like I haven't managed to survive through harrowing situations before, and this time, I've actually prepared for something like this… somewhat. Okay, yeah, not going to deny that I'm still scared shitless at this moment. But there's no way I can let that affect how I handle the situation.

While I'm somewhat focusing on my attempt to play nurse, I keep an eye on my surroundings. Even though the windows are now blocked by the gate, images gathered from cameras at the front of the bakery are projected on the panels to give comprehensive real-time footage of the outside without the assailants being able to look in; granted, some of the panels are already starting to short-out from the continued onslaught but there's still enough for me to get a good idea of what I'm up against.

I currently count eleven gunmen — eight out in the open, two inside of the utility vehicle, and one at the vehicle's turret — and, despite none of them looking like they're out of their teens, it's clear that I'm not just dealing with a inexperienced kids shooting off guns for the hell of it. This can be seen in the way they are concentrating their fire on the gate at key points in an attempt to weaken it as well as how the ones at the edges have set up barricades and are focused on suppressing fire against security forces trying to dislodge them; it vaguely occurs to me that the ones in the open are set up in two fire teams. Not to mention that it's clear that the attack on the barracks was most likely for the purpose of the diverting attention.

Before I can figure something out to counter this however, I'm jolted from my observations by a voice that I really don't want to hear right now: "What the hell is taking you?"

Fueled by no small amount of panic right now, I whirl to face Vick and bellow, "Get back down to the shelter!"

In true Hawthorne fashion however, Vick isn't cowed but simply yells back, "Not until you join us!"

"You know I can't." Because if I don't do anything and they end up breaching the defenses, the shelter will only buy just a little more time; considering that the security forces don't seem to be making any headway. So I may have to progress to some aggressive protocol measures.

And that's when my brother face gets that look on his face that precedes him saying something really… _really_… stupid. "Then let me fight!"

_Now_ he wants to fight. After rebuffing a lot of things like marksmanship and martial arts training, now this kid wants to get involved. I could debate with Vick about how his lack of experience will cause more harm than good, but it's not exactly the best moment to do so. "VICK HAWTHORNE, YOU GET BACK DO—… The hell…"

This time, it's not a form of noise that just interrupted me, but rather the lack thereof. Sure enough, my ears are no longer assaulted by that pitter-patter of bullets impacting the armored gate. However, considering that there's still the muffled report of suppressing gunfire, it's only likely a brief reprieve; so I will have to take advantage of this the best I can if I'm to deal with these seven assai—… _son of a bitch._

I have to recount just to make sure, but sure enough, four of the gunmen are missing. Considering the lack of dead bodies in the group, it's unfortunately not due to them being taken out. So that gives two options: either they decided to flee… or they've split off to try something new. My level of panic rises even further as it's not hard to figure out what it is they are going to attempt.

So without any further ado, I reign in my voice and say, "You want to help? Look after the girls. If something's to happen to me—"

"Peet… don't-don't talk like that." As Vick speaks, I don't miss the tremor that's creeping into his voice; I'm not going to fault him for it, and all things considered, he's actually keeping it together quite well.

Despite the current danger around us, I walk over to him and clasp my hand on his shoulder. "I don't intend on going down, period. But sometimes we have to prepare for possibilities, as horrible as they may be. So I'm counting on you, okay?"

Instead of verbally answering me, Vick just looks up to make eye contact with me, sets his jaw, and gives a firm nod. So in response, I wrap my arms around my brother — this time, he doesn't resist but immediately hugs back — and tousle his hair while murmuring, "Just know that I love you."

"You too…" he mutters back before breaking the embrace and running back down into the shelter.

After the making sure that the door downstairs has shut properly, I walk back over to Cohen who still hasn't shifted from his fetal position or ceased attempts at blocking outside stimuli. Fortunately he fell near the counter, which should help give some partial shelter; however, just to be on the safe side, I carefully nudge him — thank goodness for flour covered floors; the broken glass is something to be less grateful for, but it's mostly swept out of the way — into the corner and move a table over him. The whole time, my eye is kept on the security feeds; while the front shows no change, I now see that the previously-missing four have gathered outside the back door and look like they are in the process of planting a charge.

Despite his continued unresponsiveness, I look down at the boy to say, "Don't worry. I won't let them get you." My gaze then shifts to the way to the shelter. "I won't let them get any of you…"

So with little time to spare, I go back behind the counter, reach down underneath the register, and retrieve the next measure: a loaded double-barrel shotgun. My marksmanship may still be a bit piss-poor, even after a couple years of training, but I know how to wield a firearm well enough. And considering the nature of shells…

Don't get me wrong; I still abhor the idea of violence and killing, but I'll do whatever it takes to keep those close to me safe. And if that means ending the life of someone trying to challenge that, so be it.

_Hopefully everybody back home is doing alri—_

_Can't afford to think about that right now._ As much as it pains me, I have to just trust in the idea that Katniss has already set up precautions and is able to handle defending everybody back at home until help finally arrives. So I shake my head to clear my thoughts, turn the safety off, and take a few deep steadying breaths as I crouch down with my back to the wall next to the entrance to the back room. And as I look at the footage of the back — now they are moving away from the door — and front, I actually do allow these thoughts to come to the surface:

_Do you think I'm scared of you all? I've been through two Games and a war, and my experience in both allows me to make this judgment: you all may be trying to play soldier, but you're nothing more than a pack of bullies. Well guess what, I've dealt with bullies all my life, and after a while, they're all the same at their own little rotten core. You're no different, and I'm ready to triumph over you like all the rest. And after this… I'm going to find out who sent you and make them wish they've never been born. So come and get me, assholes. _

As if in answer, the air of the bakery is immediately filled with the sudden sound of explosives going off accompanied by screeching metal and a thud signifying the back door being knocked down. The perimeter has definitely just been breached.

_Game on._


	4. Measures

In the immediate aftermath of the perimeter being breached, an almost palatable silence settles over the bakery — even the sounds of gunfire from the front seem to fade away, and the boy's ragged breathing has evened out — giving a sense of eerie calm in the process. However, I know that said calm is only the prelude to a really nasty storm, and it's simply a case of each side waiting with bated breath for the other to make a move.

So I use this brief moment to take out Measure No.3, all the while keeping my ears out for the slightest aberration in the current quietude. And soon enough, that aberration comes in the form of a crunch of a shoe meeting debris, as well as the slight creak of the floorboard under pressure, and it's sufficient as any to serve as a signal to commence.

So without further warning, I pivot on my right foot to whip around the corner and let of the first salvo. Due to the cloud of dust kicked up from the perimeter breach, I can't really see anything and don't even bother to aim; however, with the pull of the trigger, a clap of thunder is followed by a cry let out and the vague silhouette of a form toppling to the ground seems to hint that I at least got a partial shot in.

It vaguely occurs to me that this likely the first time I'm directly taking a life, but I don't have time to think upon that fact as I pivot back behind the wall before a hail of gunfire is released in the general direction of where I was just at. What those gunmen don't seem to have notice is that, right before I took the shot itself, I made sure to roll a little gift towards them in the form of the third measure: a flashbang grenade.

As I hunker down, I plug my fingers into my ears and squeeze my eyes shut; even with that precaution, the ear-splitting report is still almost overpowering to the senses, and a corner of my eyelid-obscured vision goes briefly white. In the meantime, the gunfire has ceased from this end; in its place is an overlapped and shouted string of cursing, as well as uneven staggered footsteps mixed in with the sound of walls and furniture being bumped into. Oh and one of those footsteps is coming closer.

Thus it's time to issue Measure No.4, and with a press of a button on the wall — there are several at key points just in case, and they are only able to be activated when the first measure is issued — a wire is lifted out from between the floorboards to be set at ankle-height in the doorway. It's not exactly the sturdiest precaution put it place, and it snaps once the half-blinded intruder crosses the threshold, but it still does its job.

The gunman trips and topples in a sprawling heap as his gun clatters to the floor and slides away, and without the slightest bit of hesitation I raise my own gun to aim. As I do so, the kid turns to face my way — it occurs to me that he can't be any older than Rory, but I immediately force that thought down — and his vision must be good enough because realization sets in on his features as he raises a hand to scream, "WAIT—"

Another clap of thunder drowns out the exclamation, and an expression of wide-eyed terror is illuminated for just a small fraction of a second before turning into a cloud that paints the near section of the room in a rain of crimson and pink.

While the body collapses and twitches, I don't have time to dwell on what I just done; hell, I don't even have time to reload. Because, even as I eject the spent shells, it turns out that I have company… and they look a bit pissed. So it's time to get a little hands-on.

With the shotgun held ahead and perpendicular to me as a shield, I lunge forward. This time, the two kids in front of me are close together and practically back-to-back; normally, this would give them a greater collective range of vision and firing area, but as they are still disoriented, it provides me with a key opportunity. So as I crash into them, I manage to knock one down to the ground so that her head hits the doorframe; from the groan, it's not enough to take her out for good, but what matters is the integral seconds obtained from this to deal with the other guy of note. Said guy has not been taken to the ground but instead is merely shoved against the wall as I try to throttle him with my shotgun while keeping his SMG from being pointed at any part of my body. At this moment, he's trying to a—_AACK!_

Fucker just kneed me in the nuts…

Maybe it's because of a collection of all my experiences — from wrestling, to the Games, to teaching wrestling to someone who does nothing but fight dirty — throughout the years, but somehow I don't curl up into a gasping fit despite the spots swimming before my eyes. However, it's still enough to give the intruder enough of a window to push me back so that I'm now against the counter, and I have to drop the shotgun to put all my focus on keeping that SMG from— _SON OF A BITCH!_

New fact of the day: having a gun go off near your ear sucks. Same goes for a stream of spent ammo cascading upon your face.

Still, I manage to have the gun aimed away until the only thing I can hear is a slight ring in my right ear that has just compounded the previously-fading ringing from the flashbang. Just for that, I kick my assailant in the shin… with my left leg. Upon contact slight crack is heard followed by a howl of pain, and in that moment, I get an idea and use that opportunity to shove past him — in the process my elbow is added to his face — to make a beeline straight for the stove. I don't even check on the status of the contents in the pan on the still-active burner; I just grab said pan by the handle, take a quick glance to see if the assailant is facing me — he just turned to my direction and is reaching for a spare magazine of ammo — and swing my arm out to let loose the pan's contents in his direction.

Vick tends to overestimate his measurements quite a bit whenever he makes anything sugar-based, be it icings, fillings, or caramel. Fortunately for me, today is no different — _How much butter and sugar did he put in there? I was only going to make one pie, not the entire inventory of a candy shop._ — and the solution is early enough in its caramelization process to be released from the pan as a golden arc and splatter against the gunman, with the majority hitting his face; unfortunately for him, his eyes are wide open at the time.

Let me tell you something: sugar burns hurt like a bitch. Not only are you getting something akin to boiling water on your skin, the stuff also sticks there like culinary napalm. Suffice to say, getting a liberal coating of caramelizing sugar on your eyeballs probably results in an express trip to a really unpleasant experience.

Yeah… judging from the screams emanated as he crumples to the floor where he writhes around while trying to dislodge the compound — already it's starting to deform and blister his skin as well as… um… whatever's left of his eyes — this kid's definitely not having a good time. And for the briefest moment, all do is simple stare at the scene — the worst thing is that I still don't feel anything about what I just done, beyond the horrifying nature of the maiming itself; granted I'm not sure how long that will last — as the remaining intruder, who has just recovered, rushes to his side; pragmatism states that I should just finish this right now while she's distracted, but I don't have the heart to so.

So as those screams fade into groans and whimpers, so fades the window of opportunity. And as the girl whirls upon me with her gun and a hateful expression — honestly, I find it a bit hypocritical all things considered — I realize that I didn't even use the time to grab ammo, and I'm definitely too far away to go close-quarters. So all I can do is grab the sugar jar, chuck it with the intention of beaning her, and use the distraction to dive for… dammit, it's a bit hard to find cover where I am, and I should have jumped _over_ the counter.

That's when, as a string of shots go over my head and sends shards and splinters raining down upon me, a save comes from an unexpected source… and one who I really shouldn't be out here right now.

I don't know how he got back up and snuck up behind her without being noticed by either of us, but at this moment, Vick is hanging on with an expression of determined fury as he has his apron wrapped around the intruder's face as a combination of blindfold and restraint; no matter how much she struggles to try to throw him off her back, he keeps a firm hold.

Unfortunately, my brother's upper hand doesn't last long, as the intruder runs backwards to slam against the wall. I can hear the air being forced out of Vick's lungs in one rush, and he lets go to crumple to the floor in a grasping heap. So after throwing down the apron with no small amount of frustration, the girl glares at her most recent attacker and—

_DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE YOU BITCH! _

I don't know where I get the energy from when I launch myself at the intruder; in all frankness, and as my vision clouds, it doesn't really matter. What I know is this: from the moment this bitch raised her gun to point it at my brother, any trace of empathy that I might have felt when she was at her comrade's side has evaporated.

The bitch barely has time to notice my approach and begin facing me when I slam the base of the pan into the side of her face. The pan is still hot enough that, as I pull back for another swing, chunks of skin stick to it and provide a bit of resistance for a fraction of a second before being torn off. I don't give her a chance to scream as I bring the pan down upon her skull again and again… and again…

_ALL… YOU… FUCKS… LEAVE… MY… FAMILY… ALONE!_

I don't know how long I go at it — actually, everything is almost as if it's shrouded in a haze — but I don't stop until I hear my name being cried out and feel something light bounce off my forehead. It's enough to derail my current train of thought, and my vision clears to reveal Vick in front of me — granted, there's a couple meters between us — with his eyes wide and hands held forward in placation. "Uh… Peet, I… I think you're done."

His gaze shifts downward, and I follow it to see that he's looking at my hands and the improvised weapon I was just wielding; turns out that I had shifted the pan in my hands so that the handle could be used as a bludgeon. When I look down further at the body in front of me, I'm presented with my handiwork. Just like that, all of the energy had been flowing through me ebbs away to leave me utterly drained. Even with the remaining assailants still active out front — though a couple look like they have been taken out — I just don't feel like doing anything right now.

_How twisted have I become these past few years?_

I know that I' m probably going to ask myself that a lot later, but still now's not the time. So, after making sure Cohen's still alive and as I rock backwards to take a seat on the floor, I try to keep my focus on my brother while asking something fairly important: "Did you just bean me with a loaf of bread?"

"Well, it looked like someone needed to snap you out of it, but I sure as hell wasn't going to get within arms-reach," Vick notes — pretty smart move on his part — before shaking his head. "Honestly, has anybody told you that you can be pretty scary sometimes?"

"Actually, they have." I can't help but think of what Gale called me when we were taking back this district. Despite the nostalgia, I release a regretful sigh. "I really wish you didn't see that."

It's clear that he's rattled by what he just witnessed — or the whole thing, judging by the way his eyes are flitting to the other bodies — but instead of affirming that, Vick gives what I suspect he thinks is a lackadaisical shrug while saying, "It's not like I haven't seen the Games… or a ton of Peacekeepers wiped out brutally by Central. This isn't too different." Despite his attempts at brushing everything off, the crack in my brother's voice betrays how he really feels. However, I know that it's probably that combination of pride and denial that's the only thing allowing him to keep it together, and for his sake, I'm not going to jeopardize that.

The thing is… there _is_ a difference between watching a broadcast and actually witnessing something happen in person, no matter how high of a definition that broadcast may be; it's one of those things that I suspect allowed the Capitolites to be completely detached from reality during their support of the Games. And while those in Twelve are no strangers to death, there's still also a difference between the usual occurrence in this district and what I just did.

Part of me wants to admonish Vick for not following my direct orders and almost getting himself killed in the process; hell, if he wasn't careful, _I_ could have accidentally hurt him. However, another part knows that without his intervention, I'd likely have several bullets within me. In any case, and before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch: "I made sure Beth and Posy were safe where they were and locked the door behind me." That my brother takes that into consideration without me even bringing it up is something I'm grateful for. That's when he fidgets and looks at me with such apologetic earnestness that any previous desire to admonish him abates. "I'm sorry, Peet. I know that I was supposed to wait downstairs, but hearing what was happening… I-I just couldn't… You could have… I—"

"—don't have to say anything," I finish with a smile. "We'll probably talk about this later, but right now, I'll just say thanks for saving me in more ways than one. Seriously, you did good."

The last few words of my statement is enough to enough to make Vick perk up a bit. However, his eyes widen in alarm as he points at the right side of my face and exclaims, "You're bleeding!"

Sure enough, when I raise my hand to where he's pointing at, I feel a parallel and wet set of superficial gashes along my cheek, as well as the wreck that used to be a perfectly intact right earlobe; it dimly occurs to me that it's a result of the SMG's firing. Still, despite how much of a mess I probably look, I try to assure Vick that it's no issue at all; he doesn't buy it and, with a concerned expression, stands up to trudge my way.

"Stay there. I'll—"

My brother doesn't get to finish his sentence. Because the moment he crosses in front of the doorway, several bullets tear through him.


	5. Real or Not Real

"VICK!"

The scream forces itself out of my lungs to join the splinter of wood and droplets of blood suspended in the air. All the while, I can see the concern on Vick's face shift to something resembling perplexity as his purposeful stride morphs into a haphazard stumble; the forward momentum can only carry him so far before his legs give out and he collapses into my arms.

_No no no… Why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you stay down in the shelter?_

I should try to find and root out the remaining threat, but the only thing I can focus on right now is the set of bullet holes scattered across my brother's midsection. Despite the fact that his heart hasn't been hit, nor does he seems to be bleeding out severely, there's no denying that things are serious and will have the potential to get worse if we don't get help soon; the frustrating thing is that the first aid kit is still on the other side of the counter. Still, Vick looks more confused than anything as he blinks up at me.

"Hey, Peet?"

Even as I carefully scoot back to as much as a secure spot as possible while cradling his body, Vick's query is enough is to jolt me from my worries and focus on him. "Yeah?"

"You were right…" he rasps with a weak grin, "Being shot sucks."

I can't help it. Despite everything, I can't help but bark out a laugh at that statement. It's a scared and hoarse laugh that probably sounds more like a sob, but it's a laugh nonetheless. For someone who likes to complain all the time, Vick always has this uncanny ability to lighten any situation.

"Yeah, it does. But you're going to be alright. Just a few more minutes, and help's going to be on the way. Just… just hang in there."

Vick nods a bit at my request, but I can tell the pain is finally starting to get to him considering how pale and clammy he's become, or how he's gritting his teeth as his breath comes in short ragged gasps. Of course he's not going to admit that; yet what he does admit takes me by surprise though and not in a good way: "Peet… I-I'm scared."

The only response I can give to his statement is to brush his hair back and take his neckerchief off to utilize as an improvised bandage over some of the more serious-looking wounds. "That's okay. It—"

An uneven sound of footsteps from the backroom is enough to silence me and sends my already alerted senses to go haywire. As it gets closer, I make sure the ground is clear before setting Vick down underneath the counter and maneuvering myself so that I'm positioned in front of him; anybody who is planning to get to him is going to need to get to me first, and I still don't plan on going down easily. My brother definitely knows what I'm intending as he raises a whole assortment of quiet protests, but I simply knowledge it by keeping one of his hands firmly in my grasp.

It turns out that my shot in the very beginning didn't kill the first intruder as I originally thought. However, it's clear that it did quite a number on him; much of the right side of his body looks like it's been reduced to ground meat and his right arm hangs uselessly at his side as he limps into view with his SMG clutched in his left hand in an unsteady manner. What is even more noticeable is the consistent string of muttered gibberish — I can't decide whether to be angry or scared at what I'm able to decipher — and the crazed look in his eyes. And that's when he spots me.

"Ah, there you are…" Great… he also speaks as crazy as he looks. The gunman takes the time to glance around the ruins of the bakery, as well as the bodies strewn about, before sending a wide and maniacal grin my way to tut in a singsong manner: "You've been a baaad boy, _Peet_."

"Only my family and friends have the right to call me that, you sick fuck," I snarl while still making sure that Vick's shielded to the best of my ability.

In the short term, it probably seems futile, and more than likely I'll be killed or incapacitated in the process; however, the time bought by doing this could mean essential moments given for friendly forces to break through, eliminate the enemy, and give my brother the help he needs. I know that it's because of this inevitability of me being downed that I should probably just rush the intruder and try to down him in turn; however, there's too much risk involved with that considering how the gun is directly trained on me, even considering how unstable the aim is. If I simply end up getting myself killed without getting a hit in, all I'd be doing is squandering those precious moments.

Unfortunately, the enemy seems to know this as well as he doesn't seem to be particularly cautious in his approach, and a pout is given at my statement as he limps ever closer. "Aww… so we're not buddies? Pity." The smile returns in full force when he peers over my shoulder. "Ah, so it seems I didn't do that little shit in completely. Just a well; I still have more than enough time to enjoy myself a bit. Because once I cripple you, you're going to get a front-row seat as I… _get to know_ him better."

I don't know how I keep myself planted, but I stay where I am despite the waves of fear and rage that threaten to consume me, and my grip on Vick's hand tightens further.

"Stop dicking around and just kill them," comes a croak, which causes me to look for the source to see that the guy I burned is… not necessarily recovered but somewhat aware of his surroundings, despite the currently melted nature of his face and eyes— nevermind, it looks like one of those eyes is still somewhat viable.

That just causes my would-be torturer to turn upon his colleague to say, "No. After all of this, I think I'd rather have some fun." By this time, he's looming almost over me. _Just a little closer…_ However, before I can take advantage of him getting within kicking distance, he stops and allows his grin to become even more crazed than before. "Oh yeah… This is definitely going to be fun."

Well, the intruder doesn't get to have his fun. Because right as he tries to focus his aim at my kneecap, a hand clamps down on his wrist and reminds both of us that there's one other person here that we've forgotten about. The gunman's expression of annoyance at the interruption barely has a chance to change to actual terror before he's yanked to the side to slam onto the countertop.

"No, stop! STOP! DON'T! PLEA—AAI—"

I don't know what is happening, and don't intend on getting a close look, but what I can hear is the pleas of the gunman shift to a strangled scream… immediately before a horribly familiar rending sound turns accompanies said scream's transformation into a gurgle; what I can see however is, at that scream-to-gurgle point, the body go from flailing to twitching on the countertop. Vick and I only have time to exchange glances with each other — despite his condition, I'd say my brother's more focused on looking as completely freaked-out as I feel right now — before something wet lands right next to me. As I stare at the object, Vick decides to whisper what I'm trying not to comprehend:

"Is that… is that a _windpipe_?"

I've seen a lot of things. Hell, it terms of sheer messiness as to what can happen to the human body, there are much worse things that I've personally seen than someone's crushed and torn trachea lying several feet away from its host body. However… the circumstance of said tracheal detachment succeeds in raising the level of horror in this situation several notches, especially as I'm trying to comprehend that the individual responsible is who I think it is.

As the twitching in the gunman's body gradually ceases, his burned colleague looks like he's already comprehended what's up, because he immediately starts trying to crawl away with as much as an expression of fear that can be emoted on that disfigured visage. As he's doing that, I can hear the sound of footsteps move along the bakery; unlike the rapid or irregular footfalls heard throughout the assault, there's a steady and almost metronomic quality to them that unnerves me even further and causes me to make a shushing motion to Vick.

And the moment the owner of said footsteps rounds the corner into my field of vision, the level of horror finally hits wolf mutt levels.

When I was shot, I was partially incapacitated for a couple days, even though my coat ended up preventing the bullet from entering my body; same went for Gale when he had his run-in with Romulus Thread. However, a state of incapacitation could be the furthest from the truth as Cohen takes his casual strides over. Even though portions of his shirt and shorts have become so saturated with blood that they are continuously dripping along the floor, he's not showing the slightest sign of discomfort or movement impediment.

Actually, the absolutely disturbing thing is that he's not showing the slightest sign of… anything really. In place of what I've usually seen that boy exhibit — a fidgety yet ultimately good-natured demeanor — is a stoic determination that's practically inhuman, be it seen in his movement or facial expression. But, the worst change is probably seen in his eyes: no longer are they shining with bright amber and warm earnestness; instead, within a stare of unblinking intensity, the pupils have dilated to the point of reducing that amber to an almost-imperceptible ring of gold surrounding a dark void.

It's not just that the boy seems like a different person. If anything, it's almost as if he's become a machine to be taken control o—_OH SHIT!_

Welp… it turns out that the burned intruder is no longer going anywhere; because after taking a cursory glance at him, Cohen releases a burst from the SMG into the guy's skull with the sort of offhanded casualness you'd expect from flicking a speck of dust from under a nail.

However, right on the heels of pulling the trigger, said casualness briefly seems to be replaced by an expression of confusion, and the boy looks back at the body with a quick shake of the head and no small amount of conflict overtaking him. Despite being freaked out earlier, I can't help but slowly stand up to ask, "Hey… are you alright?"

Wrong move.

Because the moment those words leave my mouth, Cohen snaps his head towards me to focus that stare at me, and his features smooth back out into impassivity… right before he aims the gun at my head.

If it weren't for the fact that the thing's either empty or jammed, my brains and skull fragments would likely be scattered throughout the bakery. Still, just that click of the trigger being pulled, plus the obviousness that wasn't just him mistaking me for one of the intruders, is enough to send my blood draining from my face and a whole frenzy of questions to arise.

I mean, it just doesn't make sense. Even ignoring the fact that he seemed like a decent kid up to this point, why would he bother to warn me about the plot, save me in the beginning of this assault, and take out the remaining intruders, only to try to kill me later within a short amount of time? Whose side is he on? It's as if some switch has gone off in the boy's head to turn him into a kill-everything-that-moves mode; to say nothing of the accompanying demeanor. That's when cold realization creeps up my spine when I recall how he was saying that it was not safe for him to stay in the bakery; I thought it had to do with his own safety, but could he have been meaning that he's the danger?

Thing is… right now all those questions rushing through my mind don't matter. Because what does matter is that, whatever the reason and whether it's voluntary on his part, Cohen's a threat that needs to be at least kept away from Vick. So as the boy starts to examine the gun to figure out what's wrong, I launch myself forward and slam into him.

Even as he hits the ground and the gun goes clattering away, Cohen's reaction is almost instantaneous as he plants his feet under my belly and kicks upwards. I'll admit that I'm not the lightest person in the word — it's all muscle — but that kick still manages to send me flying several feet up, and I still have just enough forward momentum from the tackle to continue to careen forward to tumble into the wall. Despite my aching muscles, I don't waste any getting to my feet, but before I can stand up, the boy grabs one of the fallen intruders and actually throws the body at me. Granted, it may have been the smallest one, but a body's still a body; so, while it knocks the wind out of me as I'm bowled over, nothing's injured to badly. As Cohen stands back up, I see the ballistic knife on the belt of the intruder lying on top of me, grab it, and press a trigger to send the blade flying towards the boy's midsection.

_I—WHAT THE HELL? _

While I still didn't want to kill him, I was at least hoping that my actions would have at least hindered Cohen's movement; no such luck. Because all he does is pause, look at the blade buried in his stomach, yank it out, and flick it back in my direction without the slightest display of pain. I'm barely able to anticipate the movement and prop up the intruder's body as a shield as the projectile comes my way; I actually can feel the thud of the blade hitting its target, and I know that without this shield it would have probably found a home in my throat.

I don't have time to breath of sigh of relief at not being perforated yet though. As the boy strides over, I notice that his stoicism seems to begin to gain a quality of quiet fury, and I have only a fraction of a moment, as he lifts his foot up, to roll to the side when it's brought back down with a bone-crunching stomp; it's the corpse's bones that crunch underneath that applied force, not mine.

This time, I do manage to stand up completely and get my bearings straight; so when Cohen he lunges for me, I grab a fistful of spilled flour and hurl it into his eyes, which causes him to stumble and gives me an opening — his left fist still glances off my face and is enough to leave a blotch in my vision — to sidestep around so he ends up rushing past me… to crash onto the still-active stovetop. As I back up toward the front space of the bakery, I'm aware of the scent of burning fabric and hair, and when the boy steadies himself and turns around to face me, I can see that he landed on the burner with his right hand; much of it is now peeling and even charred in places, and the braided bracelet around his wrist — I remember Rory making it for him — is still on fire along with several patches on his shirt. But like everything else that came before, he pretty much treats the flames as a minor nuisance at best to be casually patted away. Granted, he doesn't seem to be pleased with how one of his arms has been rendered useless, and now when he approaches me, he does so in a relatively cautious manner. And so as the two of us being to circle each other, I decide to take advantage of this lull to both scope out my settings and try something that's probably very stupid…

I try to reason with him.

"Come on," I plead, "snap out of it. This isn't you." Of course, since I've known this kid in the most negligible manner and just as short of a period of time, there's always a chance that _this_ is the real him; however, my gut tells me that isn't so, despite the high likelihood this isn't the first time he's gone into this sort of state.

My words show no sign of getting through to the boy, but I don't relent: "If this is the real you, then why did you save Posy? Why did you save _me_? Why did you try to warn us in the first place?" That's when I decide to hold my hand up and keep them that way. "Look, I'm no threat."

This time, the gesture seems to take Cohen aback because he begins blinking and shaking his head again, and I can see some of that color returning in flashes as his eyes contract and dilate again.

That's as good of a cue as any to press on: "I was trying to defend myself before. But right now, I just want to help. After this, you can help me and Rory rebuild it just like before. Don't you want that?" By now confusion dominates in full as he clutches at his hair. "You saved our lives in more ways than one. Don't think this changes that."

I finally see the contingency I need and position myself accordingly. It would be risky in more ways than one, and I hate myself for considering it, but if worst comes to worst, it's the most effective option there is; let's hope it doesn't come to it. Especially since it looks like I'm finally getting through when the boy looks at me with gritted teeth and anguished eyes holding fluctuating pupils. "I… I…"

_Yes. Come on…_ "You can fight it. Fight it. You can do this."

He can't. Those eyes finally settle back to a dilated state and Cohen's features once again becomes more or less devoid of expression. That is… except for the feral snarl he wears.

When the boy charges at me, I can't help but sigh in defeat and mutter a small, "I'm sorry."

Right as he reaches his hand out for my neck, I duck to utilize one of my old wrestling moves and send him careening over into the gate. He's barely able to get back onto his knees — he may not be able to feel pain, but that doesn't change the fact as to how much of a loss one hand can be in movement — when I slam his head into the gate, reach over from behind, grab the ends to his neckerchief, and turn it around to begin throttling him with it. As suspected, even with the loss of that arm, Cohen's near impossible to control as he gets back up and tries to buck me off his back. However, despite the half-foot-plus of height he has on me, I manage to keep a firm hold as we get closer to my destination: the manual motor for the gate. Finally, we reach that point, and I don't waste any time in activating the motor the raise the gate — like I said, it's risky in more ways than one, but it looks like our side has just taken out the last of the assailants — and feeding the ends of the neckerchief into the motor's gears.

Just in time, because right as I push back, the boy uses his functional hand to punch me in the face and send me careening to the desk; luckily, Throatless' body is there to cushion my impact. As I clear the stars from my eyes and spit out a mouthful of blood — I'm going to need to probably check on a couple of my teeth — I can hear the motor sends out a squealed series of protests before finally seizing up completely. Out of precaution, I grab a serrated knife to hold in a guarding manner, but it's clear that this point, Cohen's more focused on the piece of cloth that's currently strangling him than on attacking me; even after he figures out to press the reversal button, it's clear that there's no budging considering the way the fabric is likely tangled around the gears. So I just stand back and watch as he struggles, and as his growls gain a wheezing quality.

It's then that I notice how frantic the boy's struggling becomes, or how he looks at me with panic-stricken and increasingly-bloodshot eyes that have regained their color. That's when he reaches out to me with his burned hand in a plea as tears begin rolling down his cheeks.

Should I help? He seems normal now, but I can't be sure that he won't revert back once freed; if he does, there's a good chance he'll be able to overpower me. Besides, logic dictates that this is too high of a risk for someone I don't even know that well and could possibly be too far gone anyways in terms of injuries.

Well logic can go blow me.

So, without any second guessing, I rush forward with the knife — I can see a bit of fear briefly flash on his face, but there's no sign of pupil dilation — and begin sawing away at the fabric. The moment I finally saw all the way through, Cohen collapses to the floor before curling back up into a ball as his body is wracked with quiet sobs. Yeah, the boy's definitely no longer a threat, and so I pat him atop the head while murmuring, "It's alright… you're safe now…"

However, I have other priorities at the moment and quickly grab the first aid kit off the ground before rushing back behind the counter.

When I get back to Vick, it's clear that he's much paler than before. Still, he answers my return with a muttered, "Took you long enough."

I can't help but snort at that I work on applying a salve and actual bandages. "I was a bit busy."

"Could tell…" A small bit of concern crosses my brother's features. "He alright?"

"About as alright as any of us can hope to get."

"Guess that works." A minute seems to pass before Vick says, "Peet…"

I don't like the way he says mine name, so I pour more focus on the first aid. But my brother seems to sense my deliberate lack of attention to what he has to say because he's a bit more forceful when he speaks again:

"Peet."

And I can't ignore him forever. "Yep?"

"Don't want to die…"

My stomach can be felt twisting at that statement, but I keep the sensation down. "You're not going to die," I assure him before attempting a smile. "Besides, I don't know how to sing."

"Oh like hell… last moments… gonna be you singing," Vick retorts with a grin. Again, I can't help laugh at that despite the fear that claws at me from the implications at his words. "Still… didn't let me finish." That short burst of levity is just that, however: short. And I try to ignore how obvious it is as to how much trouble he's having speaking.

"I didn't let you finish what?"

"Don't want to die… but _do_ want you to know… I have no regrets." Vick may be weak in his current state, but he still gives me a glare of defiance that matches any Gale can give.

"Wouldn't expect anything else." Somehow, my smile comes easily to me this time as I tousle his hair.

"Want you… to tell Ma… and everyone else… that."

"Tell them yourself," is the only response I can give as I try to keep my voice even. "Okay?"

"'Kay…" Vick's eyes briefly close for a moment as he nods a bit. "So tired…"

"Just… just… stay awake… That's all I'm asking…"

"'Kay…"

"Thanks. Help should be here any moment. They just got rid of the last of the enemy."

"We won?"

"Yeah… we won."

Soft footsteps from the back set my internal alarms, but before I can go through any contingency, a welcome voice calls out, "Peeta?"

I can't help myself, because an elated cry is emanated from my lungs: "Prim! In here!" I follow that up my looking down at Vick to say, "See? What I'd tell you."

My brother just responds by smirking at me before his smirk widens into a radiant smile. "That's great, Pa…"

I'll admit that the way Prim enters the room, with her gun at the ready, dampens my elation a bit as it reinforces how much things have changed in the past year. She's no longer just Katniss' innocent sister with the twin braids. Instead, she's now a corpsman of Central, with the tattoos seen on her arms and under her right eye as testament to that; my wife still doesn't really approve of that life decision, especially considering her sister's age. Still, Prim's caring outlook on life hasn't changed one bit in the negative — if anything, she seems to have nurtured it — and she's definitely the first person I've wanted to see at this moment.

In any case, it's clear that even her training or any watched footage hasn't prepared Prim for the result of the little fracas that happened here. While she does manage to hold her composure, I can see her pale a bit. What does seem break that cultivated composure however is when she sees Vick in my arms, and she immediately rushes over with her aid kit; not as comprehensive as I remember Luce having, but much more than the first aid kit. While she does so, other security personnel come streaming in.

Before I can say anything, Prim beats me to the punch: "Everybody's fine. Our moms took Ethan to the vault. And Katnss… well, I had to order her to stay put with Haymitch to keep the house safe." I can just imagine how pissed Katniss must be to get ordered around by her little duck.

In any case I breathe a sigh of relief. "That's good. Posy and Beth are safe downstairs," I state before nodding to the side. "Also, I need you to look at Cohen there."

Prim briefly pauses to follow my gaze towards the boy's still-curled-up form. "Don't worry, I'll get to him. Anything I should know?"

"Um… I recommend being a bit careful. I think he's fine now, but earlier, he went at little… nuts…"

Now _that_ really causes her to pause and fix me with a serious stare that I'm honestly not used to. "What do you mean by 'nuts'?"

"Um… see the guy on the counter?" When Prim takes a look, I can see her pale even further. "Yeah… he did that. It was weird; he was fine earlier. But then… crazy, and—"

"How were his eyes?" my sister-in-law's sharp query catches me off-guard, and I can definitely see that she possibly knows something I don't… something I probably don't want to know.

Still I answer her question: "Uh… they were completely dilated. Almost no color there." Turns out she's capable of becoming even more pale… and emanating quite a few colorful expletives.

Now I'm more than sure that Prim knows what I'm talking about, but she doesn't seem to be keen on answering me. While I'd like to know what's up, I'm not going to push her as she's working.

Except… she's… not.

"Prim? Uh… why did you stop?"

The only response she gives, after keying something into her wrist device, is to look up with tear-laden eyes and give me a shaky, "I… I'm sorry."

_No…_ "You're… you're sorry for what?" Prim doesn't say anything this time, but gets up and begins slowly backing away with her hand to her mouth. "W-where are you going? He still needs help. Don't you, Vick?"

There's no response. And when I look down, the only indication given that he's still paying attention is the way he's staring right back at me with half-open eyes.

"Vick?"

Still nothing. _No. No. No._

"Come on, this isn't time for pranks." _Yeah, always the jokester. Well you got me; most elaborate joke yet, haha._ "This-this isn't funny."

_He can't be… he's not…_

"Dammit Vick, answer me! Quit being so stubborn and say something for fuck sake!"

_This… this… this isn't real…_

"Just… please answer… Anything… Please." I hold my brother closely to me, willing him to finally snap out of it. "Please?"

_This is just another nightmare… Where's Cato? Cato needs to be here to wake me up. Cato! _

Despite my calls for him, the tribute specter doesn't appear. _But that doesn't prove anything; hasn't appeared in every dream._

_Because this isn't real. It can't be real. IT CAN'T BE REAL! IT'S NOT REAL!_

_It's not real_…__

_Alright, if that idiot Career isn't going to show his enigmatic face, I'll have to take matters into my own hand. Where—Ah yes, perfect. _

Confident with the knowledge I'll be leaving this nightmare behind for reality, I bring the shard of glass to my neck.

_Not real… not real… not real… _


	6. Eyes of Promise

***Katniss***

"Uncle Vick sleep?"

Ethan's question is accompanied by wide eyes of silver that stare back at me. I know he doesn't mean it, but each syllable threatens to reduce my carefully-constructed resolve to tatters.

Still, I manage to nod and unstick my throat to affirm, "Yes, he's sleeping. He's… he's going to sleep for a long time."

My son does have a point that Vick actually does look serene and at peace as he lies on the table; this is despite how he's still wearing much of his bloodstained uniform, how some of the bullet wounds can be seen under the flowers laid out, or how ashen his formerly-vibrant complexion is.

After there were no tears to be shed, we did the best we could for him given what we had. Hazelle took the time to take off her son's tattered shirt before cleaning his face and wounds. Rory and I helped pick nearby tiger lilies, yarrow, and thistle — we were careful to stick to things Vick wouldn't have gotten angry at us for challenging his masculinity — to adorn the body and, along with boughs of willow and juniper, construct the wreath with. Delly even provided candles and oils to help keep the scent of death at bay. It's the least we can do until it's time for burial.

I don't want to think about how Vick looks so much like his eldest brother when I first met the latter out in the woods all those years ago… but I can't help it, and that resemblance makes everything all the more worse.

Madge should have gotten and forwarded the news to Gale by now. The toll on his mother and siblings is bad enough as is, but I can't even imagine what it's like for him at this moment; because of the damn manufactured estrangement we still have to uphold no matter what, he's unable to be here for his own brother and can't even talk remotely with the rest of his family. Peeta actually insisted that everybody else go with Gale during the break, but they were adamant about staying.

What I do know is that last part is something that's going to eat away at my husband… once he wakes up from sedation.

The district's still on lockdown, with the Justice Hall off limits at the moment, so my brother-in-law remains more or less as he was when removed from the bakery and brought here to the Cartwrights' several hours ago. From what I've been told, many of the bodies from the barracks and following skirmishes don't even have the luxury of a house and have to settle for being laid out in the streets, with makeshift tents reserved for the wounded; right now, Mother, Prim, and Luce are down there to help out with the efforts. Just as well; I can't really think about Prim, much less look at her, right now.

"Katniss?"

I'm shaken out of my thoughts and turn towards the voice to see Rory standing at the foot of the staircase. While he seems to have been keeping things together, his usual state of calm seems to have been overtaken by melancholy. Who can blame him though? First his little brother; now one of his good friends…

Of course, I'm not going to drag that out; not to mention talking about the subject would lead to— _Nope._ So I keep things straightforward. "Yes?"

"I think Peet's waking up."

"Thank you, Rory. We'll be up in a second," I state with a nod as I turn to look at my son. "Ethan, do you want to see Papa now?"

Instead of answering or budging from his spot however, Ethan paws at Vick's face with a scowl. "Uncle Vick cold."

I don't know how to explain that to my son; I don't want to explain that to him, no matter how important it may be to be aware of the realities of life and death. Before I can say or do anything in regards to that though, Ethan takes the blanket that he loves carrying around so much and uses it to cover his uncle's shoulders before turning back around to grin at me proudly.

In contrast to the monster who supplied his half of the genetics, my son holds so much innocence. Sometimes I can't help but feel that it's too much innocence for this wretched world. Just the thought of that blurs my vision — it seems that I still do have some tears left to shed — and what he just did once again threatens to make me lose it entirely.

As I wipe my eyes and continue my attempts at keeping everything under control, I feel my shirt being tugged on with a small, "Mama?"

I can't afford to let him see me like this, but I know that the inevitable is approaching and approaching fast.

To no small amount of relief, Rory comes to the rescue by walking over to adjust the blanket and reorganize the flowers before he tousles his nephew's hair with a small smile. "Thank you for keeping Vick warm. He appreciates that. Now," he chirps while kneeling down, "how about I take you to your pa, hm? Your ma will come up too."

"Okay Uncle Rawr-Rawr!" And so with that exclamation, Ethan hops up and off the table into Rory's arms. As my brother-in-law begins to walk up the steps, I mouth my thanks to him to which he acknowledges it with a small nod.

Then once I know Ethan is out of sight and far enough to muffle any sound I'd make, I finally relinquish control over myself and allow the tears to run freely. A small part of my mind is still cognizant enough to hear the teardrops that splatter on the floorboards or the animalistic calls that crawl out of my throat as I curl up on the ground and cling to the table leg; a more dominant part simply doesn't care but rather continues to give me the go-ahead to cry. And cry I do.

I cry for Vick and the family visited by the specter of death.

I cry for Peeta, my love and hope. The dandelion in the spring that somehow manages to whether every storm so far but gains a new scar with each trampling.

I cry for the others lost today, as well as their friends, family, and comrades who will have to suffer like us without them.

And as I finally face the facts, I cry for Prim… my Little Duck who had grown up too quickly; whose last stubborn vestiges of her innocence and youth were washed away with the blood she shed.

I'm not delusional. I know that my sister remaining that innocent little girl who kept having her shirt flap come untucked — okay, nevermind, that still happens — is a pipe dream and dangerous in the long term; all the more when she decided to reside in Central. I'm aware that she was already becoming far more mature for age when we were taken captive by the Capitol; on the flip side, despite that maturation even to this point, I know that she still maintains her kindness and compassion. And, no matter what, my love for her will never diminish.

It doesn't change the fact that I wish for times where she was the one with an innocent heart to be protected, not the one who picked-off several gunmen with a pistol before ordering me to stay put as her mutt tore into the rest. And it definitely doesn't change what I saw in the bakery: when she went from kissing that boy with an extreme passion — both Rory and I were about ready to just turn around and give the two some distance — to ending his life with a scalpel.

I believe her claims that nothing more could be done for the boy, that ending his life quickly reduced the amount of suffering, and he even gave her the go-ahead. And it's obvious from where I was looking that she did her best to comfort him in his last moments. All those facts still don't change the fact that the moment that black-crystal blade entered his neck to slash it open — all the while their lips were still interlocked — it felt as if a bomb had gone off and obliterated the sister I once knew; from the reaction Rory had, it's clear he felt the same way. It doesn't exactly help that she proceeded to admit that they're planning on dissecting the boy.

I'll soon have to come to terms with the young woman my sister has become. But "soon" does not mean "now".

As my sobs finally subside, I feel something warm dabbed under my eyes, and my vision finally clears to reveal Delly crouching in front of me with a cloth, bowl of warm water, and a pure expression of sympathy without pity. Even though her reputation is of someone who always has something good to say to people, to my extreme gratitude she stays silent while works on helping me get cleaned up and back on my feet.

With my composure restored, I hug Delly in a thankful gesture and follow up by asking, "How is he?"

Her expression becomes ever more sober at that. "He's… now aware that this is not a dream." As if in answer, muffled sounds resembling that of a dying animal can be heard from above.

_Oh Peeta…_ If it weren't for a couple soldiers restraining him and Prim knocking him out, my husband would have used that shard of glass to accomplish what all our enemies have been unable to do. From what I've been told, his last moments before the sedatives finally kicked involved him screaming about how it all wasn't real.

I merely give a nod at that and proceed to follow Delly up the stairs to her bedroom. Haymitch greets me at the door with the expression of a person who has not had enough to drink. While Posy and Beth lay in fitful slumber on the nearest bed, Rory watches over them as his shoulder's clasped by Eli Cartwright. And on the opposite side of the room, Peeta lies in bed with his arms wrapped around Ethan; no longer is any sound made, but sobs still wrack his body as tears stream across his face. My son seems confused at what's going on but makes no attempt to squirm out of the grasp holding him in place; in fact he's doing the opposite by curling up against his dad's chest.

As I get closer, Hazelle, who sits at my husband's side and is stroking her hand through his hair, looks up to acknowledge me with a vacant stare; I suspect that keeping busy, be it patching-up her adoptive son or prepping the body of her birth one, is the only thing keeping her from clocking out right now. She looks as if she's about to vacate the spot for me, but I immediately make a sign that it's not needed.

Seating myself at the edge of the bed, I take Hazelle's free hand in mine and use my remaining one to weave into Peeta's. At the gesture, his eyes finally open to regard me, and he chokes out a broken, "Katniss."

If he's planning on saying anything else, I don't allow it. Instead I simply lean forward to give my husband a kiss on the forehead before whispering, "I'm here now."

~oOo~

None of us approach Peeta as he kneels at Vick's side and rests a hand on his brother's shoulder.

After he had composed himself and finally got out of bed — no small feat considering his injuries — the first thing Peeta requested was to see the body, and there was no point in delaying his closure.

With his back to me, I can't see what he's thinking, but whenever there's no pervasive silence I can hear faint traces of my husband murmuring something that I suspect is not meant for the ears of the living.

I don't know how much time passes; we definitely don't push it. In any case, when Peeta finally stands back up, he doesn't turn our way but continues to stare at the body before him.

Several more minutes of silence pass before he asks, "Haymitch… how many others lost their lives today?"

A look of conflict crosses Haymitch's face, and it's clear he's trying to deflect the question and hedge around it. "Numbers are still coming in, so that there's no way we can be su—"

"How. Many?"

"… Last I heard… approximately five hundred dead; three hundred soldiers in the barracks and adjoining buildings, fifty from the fighting, and the rest civilians. A couple hundred more still are unaccounted for."

It's then that I can see why our mentor was so hesitant in answering: because with the news, it's as if Peeta's fighting an internal enemy. Shoulders tense up, and tremors go up and down his arms. Each gasping breath is accompanied with a shudder as he bows his head. And as his hands ball into fists, fingernails carve deep furrows into the table surface.

The sight pains me to witness, but there's no point in just feeling horrible about it. So I don't even hesitate to lean in behind him to wrap my arms around his chest. All the while, I murmur the words I've used during stressful days and turbulent nights: "Stay with me."

It only takes a few seconds for the tremors to finally subside away, and with his breaths gradually returning to normal, my husband takes one of my hands to intertwine our fingers and bring it up to his face. "Always."

We stand here like this for who knows how long before I state, "This isn't your fault." I'm not just saying this so Peeta doesn't tear himself up over all that has happened. Because while he may have been the primary target, the blame for all this loss truly does falls upon the monsters who decided to commit this atrocity.

"I know."

Okay, while I was hoping for an answer along those lines — admittedly, considering the person in question, my expectations were a bit on the low side — there's something about the way those two words are uttered that turns the blood in my veins to ice. Something that doesn't sound like it should come from my boy with the bread.

And when Peeta finally turns to face me, I'm barely able to resist the overriding urge to take a few steps back upon getting a good look at his eyes. It's not as I initially feared in that they don't contain that familiar vacant stare that I've associated with loss; certainly, the light within those orbs hasn't diminished in the slightest. However, what's contained in them is something much worse.

Because those radiant eyes don't show me any promise of hope. They don't reflect the blue of a bountiful sea willing to provide food, a fair day's carpet of bluebells heralding the arrival of a new season, or a spring offering to quench a weary traveler's thirst.

What they instead reflect is a tidal wave poised to crush everything in its path, a lightning storm charging up to strike any being left outside, and a copper-contaminated well lying in wait to poison all who drinks from it.

No, there's no hope to be promised in those eyes of blue. At this moment, there's only one thing that they promise:

War.


	7. Inevitability

***Katniss***

So it's actually going to happen. We're going to go to war.

I mean, I haven't harbored any illusions that this wasn't going to happen eventually, especially considering all the preparations we've been making. Still, the idea of another war right on the horizon has been something hard to conceive; at the very least I thought there would be at least a few more years — perhaps a build-up like what happened to the Rebellion — before things truly heated up. But nope; the schedule has been pushed forward — granted, the tearing down of the victors' statues and cutting-off of our stipends didn't exactly bolster our confidence about the regime's attitude towards — and so far everybody's been preparing for the hammer to fall.

Within that time, days— no… weeks have passed since the attack.

Once order had been restored, we did not waste time burying Vick next to his father. This was done in conjunction with the burial of others lost that day and a memorial service honoring the fallen.

To our surprise Gale actually managed to show up. I'm not sure how much it had to do with the reason he was here, or if it's just due to the toll of his work, but my best friend looked just as haggard as Peeta. In any case, despite the estrangement that's supposed to exist between the two men, they managed to somehow sneak a couple moments to grieve with each other — I don't know what was said, and frankly it's none of my business — before they went back to ignoring each other.

President Coin was also here to express what I guess was supposed to be her version of condolences for the "vile act perpetrated by those who wish to tear this new order down"; yes that's seriously what she said. She also didn't stay long or even bother going past her scripted speech before exchanging a few terse words with my husband — whatever was said, it was definitely close to tearing both veneers of civility to shreds — and departing as if in a hurry to escape this district.

In contrast, despite the pain and seething rage that was coursing through him at the time, Peeta still took the effort to visit everybody. For those in the makeshift hospital, he was there to provide encouragement to those in the process of healing and comfort to those on their way out. He was also there to talk to friends, loved ones, and comrades of those lost. Not only had my husband been able to power through these forays; somehow, I managed to accompany him every step of the way, despite how the hospital setting — the sweltering summer air didn't exactly help things — sometimes made the idea of fleeing back home quite enticing.

Some cynics may state that Peeta did this just to keep public opinion on our side. In all honestly, there is no denying that such a boost is beneficial, and the idea was likely on his mind. However, anybody who would be with him for just the slightest amount of time would know that everything my husband does, he does out of a sincere desire to help… even if it's at the cost of his own health. The fact that he continued to make his rounds after the reporters left just affirms that fact.

Though what seemed to have taken an even bigger toll on him was when he sent the Hawthornes away when Prim and Luce headed back to Central a couple weeks ago. Everybody old enough to be aware knew that it was for their own good, but it was little comfort for anyone. Worse was when he also sent Ethan away along with my mother. Our son first seemed to be happy and excited to be going on a new ride, but his enthusiasm dried up, following by him currying back out, as soon as he realized that his parents weren't coming with him; Rory had to physically pry Ethan wailing form from Peeta — my husband never looked more conflicted as he did during that moment as he tried his best to comfort and reassure his son — and carry him back to the hovercraft.

At the very least, before she left, I finally was able to confront Prim. Yes, I know that it was juvenile to put it off until the last minute, and yes, I know it's hypocritical of me considering that I went through my first Games at a younger age — albeit with just a couple months — than her; however, I still couldn't help it. In any case, the thing that spurred me to finally talk to my sister was when I stumbled across her and Luce sleeping together on the couch. No, it wasn't in _that_ way or in any romantic manner. However, in some ways, what I saw was actually worse because it gave the image of the older corpsman being a big brother to the younger one; Luce, by all rights and purposes, had taken my place as the protective sibling. I couldn't hold it against him… much… especially considering what he's been through, as well as the effect of their similar roles; it still gave me a much needed sense of urgency in making sure my bond with my sister was maintained. So we talked. In the end, it seemed to boil down to her telling me that, while she did not enjoy taking all those lives, she would've done what she did all over again. On the flip side, I told her that the way she matured was daunting for me and that I'll probably never understand her commitment to the Central; however, it'd likely be the same about our disconnect stemming to my experiences in the Games. In the end, the only thing that mattered was that I still loved her.

So at least one thing went somewhat smoothly… which is more than could be said about everything else.

And that's why I, Peeta, and Haymitch are currently going over things in the conference room.

The place was drafted and constructed in Peeta's basement almost immediately upon our return to Twelve, and on first glance, there doesn't seem to be that much that differentiates it from any small — the room itself is only about fifteen by fifteen feet — cellar, even if the pain scheme looks to be on the dark side. It's furnished just as simply with a meeting table and cabinets holding books and physical files; though hanging from the ceilings are various large and bulbous glass sculptures to liven up the atmosphere and to serve as lamps.

However, it's upon closer inspection where things become a bit a bit unnerving. Because the walls, floor, and ceiling aren't black from paint; they are black due to the outer layer being composed of bricks of anthracite, with smaller bricks and pebbles of bituminous coal scattered throughout; actually, Peeta also had the rest of the basement lined with coal as well. Underneath the table and inside the cabinets are stored canisters of collected firedamp and a satchel of plastic explosive; there are several larger firedamp canisters behind the wall as well. And each of those decorative sculptures is actually filled with naphtha.

So if an intruder were to enter the basement without permission, the firedamp canisters would immediately begin to fill the room with their contents; unlike what's officially used, this gas won't have additives to be detected by smell. And the moment the cellar door would be breached, the glass sculptures would break to drench the place with the naphtha, followed by the charges going off several seconds later.

Of course most would probably dismiss my husband's precautions as the troubled creations of a paranoid madman; however the events of last month proved that his worries and measures are far from baseless. Granted, I'd be remiss to say that each time I step into here, the whole setting doesn't dredge up scenarios and fears from my childhood… scenarios that I would've preferred to remain in my childhood.

Still… there's a reason that we actually spend the majority of the time in my former house — it's been occupied by the Hawthornes ever since our return — not Peeta's; well aside from sleeping in the latter and some cursory activity showing that we actually have a reason to be at the place.

And there's a reason Haymitch calls it Peeta's "Room Full of Crazy". In all honestly, I can see where any rational person would get that impression. Because as unnerving as they are, it's not these precautions that worry me the most; it's the painting.

On the side of the room opposite from the doorway is a six-by-ten-foot canvas, and on that canvas is possibly one of the most disturbing things Peeta has created with his paints. Granted, it's probably not his most graphic piece, but unlike all the rest, the imagery isn't of any real-life recollection. Instead it's of a sea of blood with black smoke and muted flames as a backdrop; only a small ray of sunlight can be seen in the right-hand corner. It's of a gray hand reaching for a rusting silver eagle being attacked by twelve golden mockingjays. It's of monstrous and diverse beings that could only be described as draconic, as well as a barely-discernable figure obscured by the smoke it appears to be skulking in. And in the middle of it all, it's of a blond-haired boy standing naked and waist-deep in the blood as he carries a bundle.

When my husband worked on the piece — it was started within a week of our return and took him several months — he told me that was from a dream he had in the Capitol and for some reason important to convey onto canvas before it faded away. Whatever it's supposed to mean — not even its creator can figure it all out — I seriously wonder what prompted him to imagine such a thing; then again, it'd probably be something I really don't want to know.

Fortunately, I don't have to look at it for long as Peeta, after checking the time, keys in several commands onto his tablet. Immediately a map of Panem is projected onto the table, and on the wall opposite from us are our regional coconspirators. Though looking at the faces projected in front of us, I can't help but notice how there is so much fewer than when we started. With some of the districts, we're reliant on secondhand information as to their state of being. I also can't help but notice that someone else is missing, the absence of which sends a chill of anxiety through me.

"Where's Madge?"

Madge, our only connection to Gale, who's still serving as the commander in charge of counterinsurgency measures in District Two.

In all honesty, I'm not sure how he's doing it. Somehow, he's so far managing to retain an air of chumminess with Coin's regime while at the same time diffusing much of the resentment towards him from the district's populace; all the more considering that one of the first things he did upon his stationing was to confess his role in regards to the bombing of the mountain complex. Maybe some of Peeta's little charisma lessons have indeed managed to stick, or perhaps the victors there have convinced their peers that he's not the real enemy. Whatever the reason, the obvious hatred Two has for the new regime doesn't extend to him; not to say there isn't general resentment.

With the supposed understanding with the district, as well as the secret truce agreement with the Exiles — no one knows where that community of former loyalists and Peacekeepers fled to, and we would like to keep it that way — only the most zealous and militant factions of loyalists have been causing trouble for Gale. Despite the pain in dealing with them, in some ways they have provided considerable benefit in that they keep Gale busy enough to keep questions at bay as to his own loyalty to the new order as well as thinning out the herd of unpredictable supporters.

Not that instigators being a small minority has prevented Coin from cracking down on Two. It's been obvious that the district is a place the new regime doesn't exactly care for, and with this drought, they are now able to do something about it… by cutting off the food supply. From what Madge has been telling me, the rations sent there are even less than what the Seam got before the Rebellion. Officially the reason is that, with the newfound scarcity, the grain from Nine is prioritized to "more productive" districts — it doesn't exactly help that the weapon factories have been moved to Six and One — but it's obvious that goal is to slowly starve the populace; doesn't exactly help that there's been a lot of rhetoric among the regime's hardliners that the Career districts needed to feel the pain of starvation that the outer districts felt.

Let's just say that seeing the people of that district go from fielding Careers and Peacekeepers to… the state they're currently in… Let's just say it dredges up some really horrific memories of my childhood and how this district used to be. Not helping is the fact that the temperatures there during this summer have been constantly over the hundreds, and brushfires have been just as constant. Since the government has not lifted a finger to stop those blazes so far, Gale took it upon himself to create a first-response team among the soldiers under his command as well as people from the district. From what Madge has told me, it's been especially hard since the supply of water has been limited as well, but they've improvised and were able to make due; I suspect that's another way in which Gale's gained Two's respect.

In any case, at my words, everyone else gains matching expressions of consternation and confusion, and Peeta begins to blanch at the potential implications.

"I'm sure it's nothing." I suspect that my husband's telling himself that more than anybody else. "We still have a schedule we need to adhere to and can inform them later. So let's begin."

Despite everything, it's interesting seeing Peeta go to work; be it soaking in and interpreting information, asking for and analyzing ideas, adding in his own input of ideas, or mediating debates among the various factions represented. While he was always more than just a symbol during the war, it's truly now that he's taken a complete leadership role. Thing is, I'm not even sure that he notices it yet, despite how he's constantly taken the initiative or the way many people his senior have been deferring to his thoughts. But the rest of us do, and I don't miss the look of pain on Haymitch's face whenever that fact becomes apparent; because we both know that such a thing should never have been hoisted on someone so young and so good. Granted, at the same time, nobody else decent is up for the job, and we now see what happens when someone who's not decent is the one in charge. So we have no choice but to press on.

And that's exactly what we're doing at the moment: going through the status of all the various districts, both keep a pulse on the nation and hopefully implement some plans to swing things in our favor. So far each bits of news has been ranging from a frustrating maintenance of the status quo… to stuff that is downright bleak.

Perhaps because of the combination of their indispensability in providing power to the Capitol, lack of negative perception among the districts, and the lack appeal in developing the arid landscape, Five has been the one that has been the most unchanged ever since the war.

Districts Four and Ten are also fairly stable. However, there's been a simmering undercurrent of resentment in the former Career district due for its treatment due to its past status; its indispensability of its laborers in providing food, especially during this drought, has helped keep the brunt of rhetoric against it to a minimum. And while Ten's only really been complaining about the decreased amount of water reaching it, its rep Dalton gives us disconcerting news that the rail lines connecting Panem to Mesoamerica — Coin normalized relations with the country over a year ago — have been having an increased flow of workers northward.

Eight's been resentful about its factory conditions barely improving from pre-Rebellion times, and the attitude is about the same in Eleven where demand for food production has increased significantly, with little of it going to the district residents. What's been helping us is that Chaff's been keeping the general atmosphere in both districts on our side due to Peeta's history with them and, in the former district's case, the dubious causes of Paylor's death.

Mayor Charlton from Central also informs us that, tensions in District Three have been on the increase due to mismanagement by the newly-appointed administrator. It doesn't help that the district's government was appointed by Coin's regime directly with no input from its former rebel leaders, and that said government consists of a demographic that all classes of Three tend to loathe; I don't know what to think of the last part since it sounds awfully bigoted, but a point is made about their inexperience in government. Central itself is still staying detached from things, but it's been dragging its feet in terms of providing advancements for production, and the community distaste for Coin has been increasing dramatically.

Then we get to Six, Seven, and Nine; in that case there's nothing even remotely positive to find there. Not only have they remained loyal to Coin, but the lack of word in the past couple weeks most likely means that the last vestiges of resistance have been stamped out. What we know is this: despite the drought and multiple crop failures in Nine, those three districts have been getting the bulk of food along with the Capitol, Thirteen, and One. And there's still a push to covert vast tracts of lands in Seven and Six to agriculture, despite the inexperience of the district residents in that regard leading to several disastrous blunders.

Worse is the news about One. Because, for all intents and purposes, that district as we knew it no longer exists. At under a hundred thousand people, it was already the second smallest district before the war. So with the baggage that came with its former Career status as well as the lack of need for luxury items, Coin's been doing massive demographic changes to the place. Many of the original residents who did not already flee to join the Exiles have been sent to Two, where there's been no signs of improvement. In their place, hundreds of thousands of people from District Six and Nine have immigrated in to work the increasing number of factories, as well as farmland — success to what's grown varies — set along the Tiber River. Nobody misses that the actions against the district are not just remove a potential threat within the proximity to Capitol but to create a contingency measure.

Nothing's changed about the Capitol or Thirteen.

However, despite what seems like continued bleakness, Peeta continues to take notes the whole time of every point brought up in some sort of goal to figure out how to exploit them. In watching him, I can't help but be reminded of how he was preparing for the Quell. Of course, we've been doing this a bit longer than then. Oh and also there are a bit more lives at stake than just us two.

When he's not note-taking, he's looking through the late boy's sketchbook. If it's even possible, those sketches are even more disturbing than my husband's paints due to the abstract and scribbled quality of the figures within them. Yet despite their incoherent nature, Peeta continues to analyze them as if figuring out something about who he's facing other than what we know already.

Those who attacked us were former Careers — including the boy himself; though apparently he had to be… "conditioned" to their side via a process that I really could have gone without knowing — part of a paramilitary group that called themselves the Redeemers; it was the source of many assassinations in the past couple years. While Annie was ultimately able to get that information out of them — after seeing the first part of the interrogation footage, let's just say I'm probably not going to view her… or Darius and Lavinia… the same way again — we still don't know the nature of their leadership or the intermediary source that gave the order. All we know is that there are more of them out there and, despite what those kids used to be, that they've aligned themselves with President Coin. This ambiguity is probably why Peeta's trying to get anything from this sketchbook of madness, especially from two specific pages: one is of what looks like three youths carrying various weapons, while the other is of a faceless female figure and a sword-wielding male.

My husband's flipping through that book again when suddenly we have a new participant in the conversation, and they're in the District Two space. However, instead of Madge, it's a very haggard Olympia flanked by Cinnabar and their respective spouses. And before Peeta can say anything, she cuts him off: "If you're wondering, a charge of treason has been levied at Gale and Lyme for conspiring with the Exiles. However, last I checked, they and Madge have already fled the district and haven't been caught."

Almost immediately, Peeta lets off a sigh of relief at the news while simultaneously holding an expression of regret. Everybody knew that, no matter the precautions taken, Gale losing his favored status was inevitable. It doesn't make us any less worried for them. Not to mention… "Wait, what about you?" asks my husband with an increased look of worry. "Because, if Lyme's in trouble that means—"

"—our time is probably upl. It's why I'm warning everybody before we try to escape," the older victor confirms before addressing Central's mayor: "Jon?"

"Yes, Olympia?"

"Do you think you'll be able to patch us through to our kids?"

Already he's keying something off-panel. "I'm doing that right now."

"Thank you," she says while directing all her attention to Peeta. "Whatever happens, I want to wish all of you the best of luck."

He can barely give her a small nod as he murmurs, "Same to you. Safe travels." Barely any time is given for both the connections from Two and Central to blink out before Peeta addresses everybody else: "Time to go dark. You know what to do, and hopefully all of us will make it through this." At that, and after everybody else wishes us luck, the rest of the screens disappear except for the ones showing Purnia, Mrs. Undersee, and Thom; all three of our intra-district contacts are wearing identical expressions of worry on their faces as my husband begins going to through the cabinets and taking out various documents.

As she watches him, former Peacekeeper asks, "Should we sw—"

Peeta doesn't even look up from what he's doing as he rebuts the request: "No; not yet. Not until you're sure that it can be pulled off relatively safely. And all of you remember the evacuation procedures, right?" When all three nod, he breathes a sigh of relief again. "Good, because if worst comes to worst, I'd like for the civilians to make it out. Anything else?"

They shake their heads and also wish us luck before all remaining displays go dark, leaving us with the realization as to what we're going to have to do.

"Katniss?" I look up at Peeta to see him with his bundle of documents, now in satchel and clutched tightly to his chest, and an expression of concern. "Are you—"

"The bags are already packed and in our bedroom," I confirm with a pat on his cheek, "and I sent our valuables with Mother."

My husband isn't the only one who consistently prepares for the worst.


End file.
